


The Revolutionary War (of the Heart)

by green_ola



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV), wayhaught - Fandom
Genre: American Revolutionary War, F/F, Female Spies, Lack of Communication, Secrets, Sharing a Bed, Waverly’s chronic compulsion to hide her feelings gets challenged, Wynonna would have had a field day, adventure-esque, and y’know, angst sneaks up on them unexpectedly and punches Nicole straight on the jaw, gayer, historical fiction sprinkled with gay romance, it’s like Mr. and Mrs. Smith but 250 years ago, non-romantic betrayal(s), so much opportunity for dirty jokes re butter churning, that one scene from Ghost but making butter instead of pottery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-10-13 12:43:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20582696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_ola/pseuds/green_ola
Summary: Sparks fly when Nicole, an undercover Canadian spy, meets a sweet American girl, Waverly. Will they manage to work through their differences, or will their participation on the opposite sides of the Revolutionary effort destroy their chance at happiness?





	1. 1775. The women who left, and those who stayed and fought

**Author's Note:**

> The American Revolutionary War defined the American nation and, to a lesser extent, the Canadians, yet beyond the Boston Tea Party, hardly anyone knows anything about these events. Even though it happened almost 250 years ago, it continues to shape the American worldviews. (The insistence on the right to bear arms is deeply embedded in the events of 1775 when a bunch of American volunteers were able to fight on equal footing against the regular British army, muskets against muskets.)
> 
> Women played several important roles throughout the war, but we know very little about them and their deeds. Often, all we have is an alias and one vague reference. I wanted this fic to be a homage to all these women, and each chapter will be dedicated to somebody – whether their name is known or not.

_ 1775._

Waverly had just managed to steal a soft-boiled egg from Wynonna when her sister was distracted enough, as heavy footsteps thumped down the stairs.

“Here, have some coffee,” mama handed their father a steaming mug as soon as he appeared in the doorframe. “I didn’t even hear you come home last night. Did you have to drive Mr. James to the city again?” 

“Yeah,” came a grouchy response from Ward, as he joined the three of them at the small round kitchen table for breakfast. “The Beekmans were attendin’ some reception last night ‘n yah know how they like to prolong those things.” He was visibly tired, his face covered with a day’s stubble, his clothes wrinkled and scruffy, his eyes bloodshot from the lack of sleep.

They lived on the outskirts of the City of New York in a small two-story stone house on Bowery Lane, just east of the marshes and a few blocks from their father’s employers – the Beekman family. Mr. James had built a mansion on top of Mount Pleasant about ten years ago, providing numerous jobs to the local residents. Even though she had been sad to see their favorite hill for playing be developed all those years ago, as an _adult _Waverly appreciated her father’s steady income and a significantly reduced appearance of bourbon in their home.

And she was an adult now, wasn’t she? Just five months shy of her 18th birthday.

“Oh, I think I see some red feathers outside. Ain’t that a cardinal, Waverly? It’d be the first one this spring,” her father pointed at the window behind her back, causing Waverly to turn hastily in her chair. 

“I don’t see it, daddy.” Swaying from left to right on her chair to get a better vantage point to see outside, Waverly frowned. She turned around to a sight of him pilfering her soft-boiled egg.

Ward winked at her. Waverly pouted. Wynonna stuck her tongue out.

Well, technically, it was Wynonna’s egg, to begin with, but Waverly had really hoped for just one more spoonful of a runny yoke this morning. Perhaps, if she searched the straw bedding in their chicken coop again after breakfast, she’d find one more egg that had magically eluded collection at dawn.

A thud against the front door, indicating a newspaper delivery, stopped mama from verbally expressing her exasperation with the Earp clan. With a soft smile that betrayed the disapproving shaking of her head, she headed outside. The day was warm and sunny, unlike the past week of gloomy rains, and a breeze of fresh April air entered the stone house as mama opened the door. The noises permeating from the outside mingled with the sounds of Ward’s spoon tapping against the egg and its shell cracking.

Wynonna got up to put the tea-kettle over the fire, picking up some of the dirty plates off the table and placing them in a washbasin. About to join her sister in cleaning after breakfast, Waverly was stopped by her father’s hand on her upper arm. He peeled the shell off the top of the egg, expertly cut the very tip off of it, exposing a runny yolk inside, and tossed a dash of salt on top. When mama threw a rolled-up gazette on the table in front of him, Ward picked it up, quietly sliding the egg cup toward Waverly. 

She was still unaccustomed to his fatherly presence and took the proffered egg cautiously, her eyes not once leaving his face now hidden behind the large newspaper spread. Her early memories of him mostly included drunken outbursts; things had undoubtedly gotten better on that front after he found employment as a coach driver for the Beekmans, but her oldest sister Willa getting married to a British merchant and promptly being whisked away to England a few years ago had made him withdrawn and taciturn. Willa was his firstborn, after all, shouldering all of his dreams and expectations.

“Now, that’s it!” Ward exploded suddenly, tossing the gazette on the table. “There’ll be no more tea in this house, yah hear me?!” 

Waverly dropped the spoon and cowered in her chair, surprised with the abrupt outburst and aggression.

Up on his feet in a mad fury, he wreaked havoc in the kitchen, searching the cabinets and gathering all their tea cans. “I was quiet when they pass’d the Sugar Act ‘n I was quiet when they pass’d the Stamp Act, but enough’s enough,” muttering and still barefoot, he stormed outside, mama close on his heel. Waverly vaguely heard him grumble something about the _lobsters _and the _bloody backs _and a full-circle back to the _fucking lobsters_. Through the window, she saw him toss the tea leaves from each of the three cans into the wind – even mama’s favorite.

“Has daddy been drinking again?” Waverly asked quietly, her voice shaking.

“Nah, pops hasn’t given a bottle a black eye in years,” Wynonna replied, calm and assured as always. “I’m sure it’s fine, Waves. Look, I’ll just steep some red root leaves, and it’ll taste just the same.”

But Waverly wasn’t concerned about the tea. “What’s gotten him so riled up, though? You don’t think… You don’t think he’s going crazy, do you? I mean, why is he so upset with lobsters all of a sudden? And what do the poor critters have to do with tea?”

Instead of a response, Wynonna sent a signature shrug her way, soundlessly saying, “Beats me.” She moved around the table to collect Ward’s plate, dislodging the gazette he’d abandoned so abruptly. The front page read,

_BLOODY NEWS _

_Shots Fired against the Brave Patriot Militiamen in Lexington and Concord. The City of Boston Now Under Siege._

Waverly snatched the paper, as Wynonna hovered behind her shoulder, mouth agape. She scanned the page quickly; the date indicated April 19th – just yesterday. Was this the beginning of the war everyone has anticipated for years? Waverly may have been young, but she wasn’t entirely naïve; it was unreasonable to believe that the so-called Patriots – a bunch of untrained militiamen, armed with a hodgepodge of weapons – could face a regular, organized British army and come out victorious. The newspaper article skimmed over the details, but it did appear that the militia at Lexington and Concord had simply gotten lucky, while the British regiments hadn’t expected any resistance.

The front door opened vigorously, banging against the wall. “Ward, just calm down and listen to reason for one goddamned minute!” mama yelled at their father’s back. Seeing both of her parents upset and angry was like watching a natural disaster unfold – in awe with its beauty yet completely unable to stop the carnage.

“I said what I said. I shall join the fight ‘n that’s that,” headed upstairs, Ward didn’t even spare a backward glance at their fuming mother, who began pacing the length of the small kitchen. 

“Don’t worry, mama. Pops’ll cool off in no time, and he’ll see there is no easy way to get his ass to Boston.”

Mama was distracted enough with all that pacing and head-scratching that she didn’t even scold Wynonna for her foul language.

A loud knocking announced an unexpected visitor. Waverly rushed to open the door and was met by John Henry Holliday – their father’s friend and Wynonna’s unlikely suitor. Dressed impeccably as always in a ditto suit of matching blue coat and breeches, a black waistcoat, and a blindingly white cravat covering his neck, he was a sight for sore eyes. Waverly gave him an unseemly long hug – if there was anyone who could talk their father out of this preposterous idea, it certainly was John Henry.

“I believe you are showering the wrong Earp sister with affection, Mr. Holliday,” came Wynonna’s teasing from the kitchen. Waverly extracted herself from John Henry’s embrace, rolling her eyes fondly at her sister’s antics. The man was old enough for Waverly to place him in the same category as their father, although Wynonna, six years older than Waverly, didn’t protest greatly when Ward announced his desire for her to allow John Henry’s courtship.

Turning around to face her sister in the kitchen doorway, Waverly was met with a stormy forehead and lips set in a thin line, already paling from the force keeping them together. Her eyebrows raised involuntarily at an unusual display of jealousy – whenever the subject of John Henry came up between the two of them, Wynonna’s responses typically seemed noncommittal, indifferent, and aloof, almost on the verge of apathy. Waverly grabbed John Henry’s hand, grinned, and skipped a step, pulling him behind her to the kitchen. Oh, but did she finally find something to tease her sister about. 

“Michelle. Ms. Earp,” clutching a three-sided cocked hat in his palm, John Henry greeted the women with a polite nod. A barely-there smile ghosting his lips indicated that Wynonna’s jealous reaction didn’t go unnoticed.

“Have you heard of Lexington and Concord?” Hands resting on her hips, mama stopped pacing and faced their guest. Well-mannered greetings seemed to have been lost to the wind along with her favorite tea leaves.

John Henry cleared his throat and schooled his features. “I did, indeed. I am here to share further news with you if you’d allow.” Upon receiving a nod in acquiescence from mama, he briefly looked down at his feet and took a deep breath, “My services have been requested in a capacity of a captain to the Connecticut Colony militia. My company has orders to march northeast immediately and assist with the defense of Boston.” 

Waverly gasped involuntarily, while mama threw her arms up in defeat and started pacing again. The only person seemingly unmoved by the news was Wynonna, who remained standing by the kitchen table, arms crossed over her chest, stoic eyes burning into John Henry. 

“Ms. Earp, if I may…” he began pleading with Wynonna when their father barreled down the stairs.

“Hank! As I live ‘n breathe, I’d never been so happy to see yah, yah old fool!” He had his old hunting rifle, which Waverly hasn’t seen in years, thrown over his shoulder, and was carrying a leather satchel filled haphazardly with clothes. The brown socks he carelessly put on his shoeless feet inexplicably drew Waverly’s attention; the right one was threatening to slide off, while the left one was pulled on so tightly, his large toe was making an appearance in their kitchen through a pronounced hole. 

Holding John Henry at arm’s length, eyes locked, Ward patted his upper arms dramatically and somewhat tenderly.

“I’m sure glad to see you as well, old friend,” John Henry whispered.

Waverly couldn’t pinpoint why the storm that passed over mama’s forehead felt familiar until she looked back up at her sister and saw the exact same expression painting her features. In the past, she had associated that look with jealously, but she must have been mistaken. It wouldn’t make any sense for either one of them to be _jealous _in this scenario. Her eyes darted back to the men. Maybe it was just anger. Or disappointment. Or… Or… 

John Henry diverted his eyes to the floor and cleared his throat, “I’m here to bid you farewell. I am headed for Boston today.”

Her father grinned, full and bright, “No need to be gloomy. That’s fantastic news, as I’m lookin’ for means to get to Boston myself.” 

Just then did John Henry notice the rifle and satchel in Ward’s hand and his lips spread in a matching smile, “Now then, this is what I would call a mighty good cause for celebration!”

~XXX~

“Give back my egg, Étienne, or I swear…” Nicole growled quietly under her breath so that their mother wouldn’t hear them. 

Not even taking a second to look up at her from his plate, he continued to peel off the eggshell. “Or what?” 

“Ugh, you’re such an idiot,” she tossed a rolled-up serviette at him. 

He sputtered indignantly, “And you’re… you’re a beef-head!” 

“Give it back!” Getting up to her feet to retrieve the stolen egg by force, if necessary, Nicole was equally stopped by the cumbersome petticoat obstructing her movement and the voice of their mother entering the kitchen.

“Nicole! Leave your brother alone. This childish behavior is rather unbecoming of a young lady.” 

“He stole my egg, mother. An egg that _I _bought, with the money that _I’d _earned. But you always have to take his side, eh?” She walked over to the washbasin, rinsing off the breakfast dishes to calm her temper. 

“Now, Nicole, you’ll never find a suitor to marry with that attitude! I had allowed you to take over your father’s weaving business when you came of age, under the assumption that you would soon have a husband to relieve you of those duties. Why can’t you follow Étienne’s example? Only 20 years of age and already engaged to a daughter of a fur-trading merchant,” her mother’s annoyed tone interlaced with notes of pride and honey at a mention of her brother.

_Oh, I’d gladly marry a daughter of a fur-trading merchant as well. _She had to bite her tongue. Leave it to her mother to change the subject so skillfully. Nicole rolled her eyes but didn’t offer a riposte; they’ve had this exact argument numerous times prior. After hastily drying her hands on the kitchen rag, she tied her pockets about her waist and put on a blue short-gown to head out. Focusing on the embroidered pattern on the pockets, Nicole avoided her mother’s eyes she felt drilling holes into the side of her head. 

She walked briskly to the front door to evade yet another charged discussion about her chosen profession and marital status – she enjoyed being a _spinster _by trade and – at 24 – saw nothing shameful in being referred to as such for entirely different reasons. Her rushed departure was stalled by Mr. Nedley – their neighbor and her late father’s friend – who was stood just outside their door, arm raised as if he was just about to knock.

“Ms. Haught!” He was unreasonably surprised to see her, given that he was stood on _her _porch. Running anxious fingers over his unfashionable mustache, he continued, “May I come in? I have some news to share with your family that can’t wait.”

“Of course,” Nicole moved to the side to allow him entry. Outside, she noticed his daughter, Chrissy, loading luggage onto a horse cart but the woman didn’t return her waved greeting, clearly upset with something. _Huh, quite curious for the typically chirpy girl._

Mr. Nedley clearing his throat brought her back to the guest stood in the hallway. “Please follow me. My mother and brother should both still be in the kitchen after this morning’s meal.”

“Randy, what a pleasant surprise!” Her mother was up in an instant. “Can I offer you some tea?” 

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Anna. I’m bearing news that I’m afraid are not quite pleasant.” 

“Well, please take a seat at least,” her mother pointed at one of the vacant kitchen stools. 

“Étienne,” Mr. Nedley greeted her brother, taking the proffered seat. 

Nicole took off her cap and her short-gown but kept them in her hands, ready to leave as soon as Mr. Nedley was done. 

He took a deep breath. “There is no easy way to say this… The so-called American patriots led by General Montgomery captured Montreal last night. His army is said to be marching toward Quebec City as we speak, as is another division under Captain Holliday, approaching directly from the south. They will converge here within a couple of weeks. As I am now in charge of the city’s defenses, I will issue a proclamation this morning requesting evacuation of women and children, and requiring all remaining able-bodied men to take up arms, lest they be assumed a rebel or a spy.” He stated the last part looking straight at Étienne.

“That’s awful good for you to give us a warning. We’ll start packing at once,” her mother got up to her feet. Étienne was a beat behind her, dabbing his mouth with a serviette in preparation to get up.

Nicole couldn’t conceal the surprised expression that sneaked onto her face uninvited. “I’m not leaving.” Receiving a stern look from her mother, she continued in what she hoped was a determined tone, “I’m going to help with the defenses however I can.” She couldn’t be sure, but something akin to relief and gratitude crossed Mr. Nedley’s face. 

“Now, quit this nonsense. We’re _Canadien_, Nicole. This is not our fight,” her mother chastised, shaking her head.

Ignoring her, Nicole spoke the next words directly to her brother, “Yes, we are. But our father was Scottish, and he died fighting for the King, protecting this city. It’s our duty, Étienne.”

Her brother looked at her gaping, like a fish fresh out of the water. As always, their mother came to his rescue, “Your father was a fool who left me with two small children, fighting for a country he barely remembered and a king who could not care less about us!”

Mr. Nedley shuffled uncomfortably on his stool, visibly uneasy with the unexpected family quarrel. He fought alongside their father at the Battle of the Plains of Abraham 16 years ago, defending the city from the French. Nicole was certain he didn’t appreciate his late friend being referred to as a fool, especially not after he, alongside hundreds of others, had died defending the very same city that was now under threat. She also knew Mr. Nedley was too polite to contradict her mother. 

“You told us our father was a hero,” Nicole took it upon herself to defend his name. 

“What else was I supposed to do?!” shaken and upset to a degree Nicole has never seen her before, her mother countered. “You were eight years old, Nicole; your brother was barely four… Your father left us to fight in a battle that meant absolutely nothing for our well-being and the well-being of Quebec City. He _left us_, Nicole,” she whispered, “and don’t be mistaken – it matters not one bit whether the city is governed by the British, the French, or becomes a part of an independent colony, as the Americans would fancy. _Not one bit._”

“Mother is right, Nicole,” Étienne stepped in before she had a chance to refute. “The British have treated us right – we can practice Catholicism and speak French freely without fear of persecution. But we’re _Canadien_, and we’re under no obligation to oppose the American forces, nor are we bound to join their plight for independence. Better let it be.” 

Her father’s unruly red hair – much like hers – and his kind brown eyes flashed in Nicole’s memory. He used to take her to his wool shop, teaching her how to use a spindle, always spinning tales of Scotland and weaving in lessons of loyalty and duty to the Crown. Étienne was but a toddler when he died, and Nicole blinked rapidly, suddenly realizing that he probably didn’t even remember their father, that he had never experienced running through hundreds of woven threads hanging from the ceiling, laughing at their father making scary noises pretending to be Bodach – a Scottish bogeyman. 

Looking back at her mother, Nicole took a saddened breath. Never before had she realized her mother’s pain – they had never been close, her mother always favoring _little Étienne _for his obedience and tame nature, so different from Nicole’s defiance and at times an overwhelming sense of pride. She never considered that her character, as much as her appearance, reminded her mother of the husband she lost so prematurely to a cause she didn’t even agree with. 

“We don’t always see eye to eye, but you have to let me do this,” Nicole searched her mother’s face. “For his memory,” she added in a whisper, watching as the typically solemn, rigid features broke into a tearful expression. She opened her arms and allowed the shorter woman to fall into a crushing embrace. “Je t'aime, maman,” Nicole whispered into graying black hair.

Meeting Étienne’s eyes above her mother’s weeping shoulder, Nicole was sure she was staying in the city alone.

~ 

Nicole was jarred out of sleep by the bells of the Notre-Dame-des-Victories church. It was happening – the Americans were finally mounting an attack. She blindly patted the nightstand in search for matches to light a candle; it felt like early morning hours, but it was still dark enough outside it could have been midnight. The blinding snowstorm she could see raging out the window didn’t help with visibility one bit.

Candle alit, Nicole put on a pair of brown leggings and wool stockings, both left behind by Étienne. Him being only a few centimeters taller allowed her to wear his leggings and breeches without an excessive need for tailoring. Involved with the city defenses over the past weeks, Nicole had discovered the freedom of movement offered by leggings. During these trying times, nobody cared much about the lack of skirts on her person. To keep herself warm, she threw on a couple of her shirts and a wool capot she recently acquired instead of her short-gown. Grabbing a toque on her way through the door, she jogged to Mr. Nedley’s – _General _Nedley’s, she hastily corrected herself – house, battling the blizzard.

Infrequent roars of the artillery stationed outside of the city walls didn’t draw much of her attention anymore. When the Americans started shelling the city three weeks ago, Nicole had been a mess of nerves, jumping at every discharge of the batteries. Nedley had taken pity on her and walked her over to the top of the palisade. From the vantage point, it had been clear that the American artillery, set up on the opposite side of the St. Lawrence River, was too far from the city walls to be effective. Since the frozen ground prevented their enemies from entrenching their weapons, half of the American mortars had already gotten knocked out by the British cannons defending the settlement. 

Not even bothering with knocking, Nicole entered Nedley’s house, where numerous men were bent over a large city map strewn over his dining table. Offering her a nod in greeting, Nedley announced, “That’s everyone, then. It appears that our reports were correct – many of the Continental Army’s enlistments expire with the end of this year, which has forced both Montgomery and Holliday to mount a last-ditch attack on this beautiful New Year’s Eve.” 

Somebody snickered, and Nicole smirked in response – there was nothing _beautiful _about the blizzard raging outside.

Although not much was given away by his expression, Nedley’s tone grew fractionally more somber, “The city is under attack from three directions. Montgomery’s army has approached the outer defenses of the Lower Town from the Saint Lawrence River,” he pointed at the southern tip of the promontory on the map. “The sentries noticed the lanterns guiding the Americans in the blizzard and rung the church bells. The enemy broke through the palisade, but Montgomery was shot by the militiamen trying to navigate the narrow streets.”

“I’d never imagined there would come a day I would praise the layout of our convoluted streets, eh?” one of the men remarked. 

Nedley’s mustache twitched, but he continued as solemnly, “Holliday’s forces are advancing toward the docks and the Sault-au-Matelot barricades. This is where I want to focus our defenses. However,” he pointed at the western walls, “there have also been reports of shots fired right outside of St. John’s Gate. If they break through the palisades there, we’ll be surrounded within the Upper Town. I need to verify these reports to ensure that concentrating our forces in the north is the right call and to know how many reinforcements to send west. Ms. Haught?”

Nicole was ready. When she’d volunteered to stay and aid the militia, Nedley had redirected her enthusiasm toward scouting and carrying messages. She’s prepared herself over the past six weeks, memorizing city shortcuts, running every day to gain endurance, and delivering messages from the spies. “Yes, sir?”

“Scout St. John’s Gate, the enemy’s numbers, and our militia stationed there. I will march the remaining forces to the Palace, just a couple of blocks north-east of where you’ll be, and will prepare to flank Holliday from the north. Report to me immediately if the defenses at the gate are getting overwhelmed, and I’ll assist them instead. Understood?”

She studied the map – St. John’s Gate wasn’t even a kilometer away; she could run there in five minutes if the weather weren’t this bad. Scouting in the blizzard would also be more difficult and exceedingly more dangerous. Swallowing hard, Nicole nodded. “Yes, sir. I will report back to you in half an hour.” 

Receiving a nod of affirmation, Nicole turned on her heel, pulled the tuque over her ears, and darted into the storm. 

~ 

Her back against a half-destroyed barricade, Nicole was sat on the frozen ground, panting. The blizzard had passed hours ago, only a few straggler snowflakes were falling around her now, late to the party. Late to the fight. In a post-battle daze, she couldn’t help but follow their descent to the ground with unseeing eyes. The first ray of sunshine broke through the heavy dark clouds just as the church bells rang ten times.

The battle was won, Americans surrounded and short on ammunition, Montgomery was killed and Holliday severely injured, yet there were no cheers of victory. Nicole felt empty; her ears were ringing with musket shots, her eyes couldn’t unsee the dead bodies peppering the streets that just yesterday had teemed with life. 

“Ms. Haught… Ms. Haught… Nicole!” Her eyes snapped up to General Nedley. His gentle smile was marred with concern. “We won,” he whispered, sliding to a sitting position against the barricade next to her with grunts of dissatisfaction.

“We won,” she agreed.

Nedley nodded, adding after a brief pause, “In no small part thanks to you.”

Nicole looked at him questioningly. 

“All of my captains were nagging me about the shots reported by the western walls. About how I ought to send a division to reinforce St. John’s Gate.” Nedley shook his head in disbelief. “You were the only scout who assessed the situation for what it was – a feigned attack to distract us from the main action against the Lower Town. Had I kept those forces there… or worse – had I reinforced them by pulling away from our main defense against Holliday…” He didn’t finish, but the implication was clear. 

Turning to see him more fully, Nicole noticed a torn piece of fabric wrapped carelessly around his upper right arm, already soaking in dark maroon. Not knowing how to respond to the implied praise, at least not now when the fresh snow was still painted red all around them, she chose to change the subject instead, “You should have that looked at, sir.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Nedley dismissed with a wave of his uninjured arm. “In a minute. I like the serenity of this place.”

His grouchiness and stubbornness brought a small smile to Nicole’s lips. She sighed. “Serenity, eh?” 

“Uh huh,” he confirmed. 

The comfortable silence between them was eventually shattered by a familiar noise of far-away artillery. Nedley groaned, “I was hoping Holliday died from that ghastly wound to his leg, but apparently nothing will kill that devil.”

Nicole’s eyebrows pulled together in concern, “What now, sir?” 

“Now? It would appear that we’re under siege again,” he shrugged. “But if our reports are correct, Montgomery’s army fled after his death and Holliday lost at least 75% of his men, whose enlistment expired with today’s sunrise. He won’t attack again.”

She nodded in understanding. Seeing Nedley reluctantly struggle to his feet, Nicole helped him up, earning an awkward pat to the shoulder, “Get some rest, Ms. Haught. You deserve it.” 

“Yes, sir!” she mocked a salute, which earned her a chuckle from the typically solemn man.

Walking away, Nedley offered over his shoulder, “I’m glad you stayed, Nicole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> American armies attacked Canada early in the Revolution and got as far as Quebec City. The Canadians ended up being misunderstood by both sides of the conflicts; while some of them stayed and aided the Brits in fighting against the Americans, many others felt that it was not their fight. Quebec City survived the siege somewhat miraculously - the fact that a large portion of the American army suffered great losses trecking through the Maine wilderness, the bad weather, and well-designed defenses spared the city. You can actually still see some of the original defenses in the city today.
> 
> There are some accounts of American women traveling with the armies all the way to Canada, but not much in terms of women on the Canadian side. It is hard to imagine that some of the Quebecois women didn't stay to defend their city, though.
> 
> It's insane to picture it now, but New York City at the break out of the Revolution was a small town on the very tip of Manhattan Island. The rest of it was just rolling hills, forests, and meadows. Quebec City must have felt like a metropolis in comparison.  



	2. 1776. Nameless Quebecoise Prostitutes

_ 1776. _

Nicole slunk alongside buildings’ walls, staying in the shadows, thankful for the early arrival of twilight in the spring. Hair obscured by the hood of the wool capot, she kept her head low, eyes diverted to the ground, trying to elude being spotted by any familiar faces. Even with the ongoing siege, many families had returned to their houses within the fortifications, and the city was slowly crawling back to normal. It wouldn’t do to be recognized today, not with the delicate mission she was given, lest the word of her involvement with _debauchery _and _indecent __activities _travel to her mother.

As the church bells rang six times, she cursed Nedley for pinning this task on her and sped up her steps. _Where the devil fears to tread, a woman he shall send. _That wasn’t exactly what she had in mind when she’d volunteered to aid with the defense of the city. Jumping over a gutter filled with questionable muck, Nicole crossed the cobblestone street and, after one last look in both directions to ensure nobody was paying her any heed, entered an unassuming three-story high building.

The small anteroom was warm and teeming with life. British soldiers, Canadian militiamen, and ordinary citizens alike milled about jovially, waiting to be seen to. Nedley had told her that a man’s basic needs don’t stop for war and _damn, but was he right_. Nicole didn’t know how prosperous this _bawdy house _had been prior to the American Revolution, but the war certainly hadn’t hurt it. 

A young hostess, dressed in an elegant dress of British design, approached Nicole, who decided it was best to discuss some things in private, away from prying ears. She was surprised to realize how deeply Nedley’s paranoia about spies lurking around every corner had permeated into her bones. “I have a sensitive business I’d like to discuss with your… with the Madame. In private, if possible,” Nicole added in a low voice, barely audible above the ruckus.

“Oh, of course,” the girl gave her a quick once-over and waved at someone deeper into the parlor Nicole didn’t quite see. “I assure you that we can assist you with the utmost confidentiality,” she added in an equally low and solemn whisper and pointed Nicole to the third floor.

The red woolen arrow sash Nicole tied around her waist as a symbol of allegiance to the Crown must have given her away, and so she really shouldn’t have been surprised that the girl quickly understood the underlying cause of her visit. Using prostitutes in warfare was not a new idea, and Nicole scolded herself for being naïve enough to think that these women wouldn’t have already expected to be called upon for the greater good of the city. Although a warm smile and a wink that the woman send her off with were definitely a few notches too enthusiastic. It was war effort they were discussing, after all!

Nicole was met at the top of the stairs by an impeccably dressed middle-aged woman, with a kind expression and smart eyes. Her sensible black skirts and an elegant shirt buttoned up to the neck did not exactly align with Nicole’s expectations for a proprietor of a bordello.

“Madame Marlou,” the woman held out her hand in introduction. Shaking hands, Nicole had to suppress the snicker that threatened to escape her mouth at the name. Not expecting a response, the woman began walking down a long corridor, “I am glad you’ve decided to come to us today, dear. We are uniquely equipped to assist you with your needs.”

“You are?” Nicole couldn’t suppress her astonishment. When Nedley had shared his plan with her, she was skeptical about the feasibility of it all. Oh, how deeply mistaken had she been!

“Oh, yes. Some of our girls specialize in just what you’re looking for and offer their services with quite an enthusiasm.” 

Nicole couldn’t believe her own ears. Her mind raced with dozens of questions. How had those women gained enough access to the enemies to already claim that they _specialized _in it? Who had hired them before? What information had they collected thus far from the American camp that could help General Nedley plan the defenses more accurately? 

Madame Marlou read the emotions clearly visible on her face, “I know it may come as a surprise, but you are not the only person with those needs in the city. I hope that you know that it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Seeing the woman’s kind expression, Nicole relaxed fractionally. No matter how she looked at it, she did feel guilty for coming to the bawdy house, for asking those women to enter the enemy’s camp under the most degrading and humiliating circumstances. No man – British, American, or Canadian – would ever sacrifice himself and his body for his country in that way, yet Nicole also couldn’t shake off the feeling that the deeds of these brave women would not be remembered in history as much as the men’s deeds on the battlefields.

Stopping in front of a door on the right, Madame Marlou knocked and, upon receiving an invitation, entered a small room. “Ella, dear, I know you had the rest of the night off, but I have a client that seems to be in dire need of your services.”

Sat in front of a small vanity desk, blonde hair provocatively falling in loose locks over an exposed neckline, Ella smiled at Nicole coquettishly, “Oh, I assure you, _this _is not an imposition.” 

“Miss,” Nicole greeted, confused with the turn of events. Her mouth inexplicably dry, she felt the heat rise to her cheeks.

Madame Marlou offered Nicole one last kind smile, “No need to be nervous, dear. You’re in good hands with Ella. She caters to the needs of many local women, including a couple of wives of the British officers stationed here.” With that, the Madame was gone.

Blinking at the suddenly closed door, the true implication of what the woman was referring to that whole time rushed over Nicole like cold spring rain. She had never even considered the possibility of women seeking _services _of other women in such an establishment. Her ears burned bright red. 

“Hi there, handsome,” Ella purred, getting up to her feet and stalking toward her. A silky robe tied with a meager string around her waist swayed like the waves on the St. Lawrence River with her every movement. Tantalizing. Hypnotizing. 

“Oh god,” Nicole whispered, taking steps back until she felt her body collide with the door. She groped blindly for the door handle. “I’m not… It’s not…” she muttered. 

To her credit, Ella stopped her approach and examined her, with an equal amount of pity and warmth swarming her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” was all Nicole was able to mumble to the floor, as she darted out the door.

Once outside and relatively safe in the quiet hallway, she closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart. An enticing smell of perfume wafted underneath the door, entering her nostrils greedily taking in gulps of air. Closing her eyes was a mistake as well since images of all the skin exposed by that deliciously sinful décolletage and Ella’s alluring movement crowded her mind unbidden. Nicole shook her head to disperse any novel notions from forming. She was here on a mission and could not allow something so pedestrian to derail her actions. 

“Madame!” She hollered after the woman disappearing in the shadows of the long hall. “Madame Marlou!” Her feet carried her away from the temptations hidden just beyond Ella’s door.

“Yes, dear? Is something not up to your standards?” the Madame was visibly surprised to see her most recent client chase after her already. 

“Uhm, no. Everything’s fine… _Would _have been fine, really. But I’m not here for… you know,” Nicole winced at herself for her inability to form sentences. Sex was what these women did for a living, yet here she was unable to utter the simplest words related to it. 

“What is it, then?” Madame Marlou demanded, clearly losing patience with this unusual visitor. “I assure you that everything that happens in this establishment is strictly by the books and approved by the hand of the servants of the Crown.” 

“Oh no, it’s nothing like that… May we speak in private? There are matters I’d like to discuss with you that better not be overheard by unauthorized ears.”

Her secretive tone must have convinced the woman. “Follow me,” she said, directing her steps to a room at the end of the corridor.

Against Nicole’s expectations, they didn’t enter another small bedroom but rather an office, with several bookcases propped against the walls and a red-cedar desk placed in the middle. As a silent invitation, Madame Marlou pointed at a chair sat opposite of the desk, which Nicole gladly accepted. Nearly every centimeter of the tabletop was covered with documents, books, and forms, yet it still managed to look organized and neat. 

Walking around the desk, Madame Marlou poured two generous glasses of _eau-de-vie_. She wordlessly offered one to Nicole and sat in her desk chair. The woman’s mien, at first welcoming and kind, almost maternal, was now a sharp sort of shrewd and pragmatic. Combined with her sudden taciturnity, Madame Marlou’s observant eyes caused Nicole to squirm in her seat.

“Well, then. State your name and business,” the woman prompted after taking a long swig from her glass, measuring Nicole’s every move. 

Nedley’s insistent lesson on never using her real name rang through Nicole’s mind. Still, with what she was about to ask for, she felt she owed the woman a bare minimum, “I’m Nicole.” After receiving a nod of acknowledgment and assurance that the Madame would not press for a surname, she continued, “I was sent here today on behalf of our Defense Corps.” 

“How’s Randy? I hope the old man is taking care of himself,” Madame Marlou interjected with a barely visible, nostalgic smile. Seeing Nicole’s surprised face, she relaxed back to the softer version of herself and added, “It’s a small city, Nicole. Send him regards from Claire.”

“Oh, uhm. All right.” 

“Now, what on Earth could he want with us?”

“Right… As you know, the Americans have not let up the siege since last November, even though Captain Holliday hasn’t received any reinforcements after the failed attack on the city. His numbers are dwindling, and yet they’re still too strong for us to risk a full-on offensive and attempt to drive them back south.” Nicole took a gulp of eau-de-vie. The burn that set her mouth aflame was a pleasant distraction. She cleared her throat, “General Nedley was wondering if you may have some… some women who are in the later stages of smallpox, where the lesions are not as visible any longer, who might volunteer to visit the American camp and transfer the disease to the Continental Army.”

After an uncomfortable pause, Nicole was quick to add, “Of course, we have some funds set aside to compensate the brave volunteers.” The practiced words tasted acerbic in Nicole’s mouth.

“I’ll think about it,” Madame Marlou agreed. “But tell Randy he’ll have to discuss the terms and details of this little secret agreement with me in person. Preferably over dinner.”

Nicole was quick to accept such generous terms. And if she’d gained something she could tease the solemn man with, then well… Two birds, one stone.

~

On the way back, Nicole stopped by Ella’s doors. After no longer than a few seconds of deliberations, she knocked with more confidence than she felt. A soft, melodic, “Enter,” welcomed her inside. With the mission accomplished and the night still young, there was nothing holding her back now.

_Three _birds, one stone.

~

“More tea, Captain?” Nedley’s question had Nicole grind her teeth. Upon his insistence, she’s been hovering in his office for the past two hours, tidying up and serving tea and biscuits. Nedley’s guest, Captain Charles Douglas, had led a squadron of British ships into the St. Lawrence River last week, effectively forcing the Americans to abandon the siege of the city and retreat to Sorel.

She served the requested tea with a fake smile plastered on her face. The skirts Nedley had asked she wore felt foreign and constricting; Nicole had spent a good portion of the past six months wearing leggings and breeches, under the pretense of their superior utility in the warzone.

To add insult to injury, she was now passing tea to a man who just two days ago had laughed in her face when she requested to join the British Army. With the siege broken, Quebec City was slowly recovering. Sensibly, Nicole should attempt to get her weaving business back on its feet after months of inactivity caused by the American blockade of the trade down the St. Lawrence River. But months spent under siege set something alight in Nicole, something that pushed her to give more, to keep fighting until the enemies of the Crown were defeated.

Alas, her enthusiasm was brutally crushed. Nicole was told in no uncertain terms that it would be a sorrowful day when the Crown was forced to stoop so low as to employ the assistance of women in the armed forces. Nedley had interfered just in time to prevent Nicole from saying something irrevocable to the Captain, and he’d sent her on an asinine mission to pass bread and supplies to the 3,000 troops that had arrived aboard the British ships. 

Nicole had a suspicion that this was Nedley’s sneaky way of getting back at her for setting him up with Madame Marlou all those months ago, although the woman had agreed to help them in the end. Oh, she would have to think of something clever to exact her revenge for this. For now, though, she ground her teeth and served more biscuits. 

“Since we’re on the subject of fresh recruitment for the southern campaign, Captain, why don’t we revisit the idea of utilizing women in certain areas,” Nedley continued the conversation that had circled around the dire need of the British to increase local enlistments. 

“General, sir, allow me to be perfectly honest here. The zeal and eagerness demonstrated by that woman you brought for my consideration a couple of days ago were inspiring.”

From her position by a fireplace mantle, Nicole looked confused around the room. Was Captain Douglas speaking about her? She looked down at her dress, and it dawned on her – he didn’t recognize her, didn’t pay her any heed, as she was dressed in simple skirts and a shirt, as any common girl would.

“If only we could instill half that enthusiasm into the Canadian men! The fact of the matter is – and I’m sure you can wholeheartedly agree with me here – that women do not have a disposition for war, no matter how keen they may be to join in the fight,” the Captain continued. Nedley’s subtle shake of a head was the only thing that stopped Nicole from speaking her mind from the corner of the room. 

“You may be quite right with respect to employing women on the front lines, Captain, and it is not my goal to dissuade you,” Nedley responded. Nicole felt a punch to her gut in betrayal. “However,” he continued, oblivious to his own grating words and purposefully avoiding Nicole’s eyes, “you ought to consider other areas where women’s unassuming presence may bring great benefits to the overall success of a campaign.” 

That caught the Captain’s attention, “Continue.”

“How about using women as spies and messengers? They can move through military camps and war lines with more ease than any man.”

“I don’t know, General,” Captain Douglas considered, scratching his chin. “This is quite a novel idea. I don’t believe anything of the sort has ever been tried before, and I’m not sure I’d want to stick my neck out for it.”

“To the contrary, sir. Ms. Nicole Haught, who you met two days ago, was my most valuable scout and a messenger during the decisive hours of the Battle of Quebec. She has also gained unrestricted access to your camp and has been present in this very room from the beginning of our meeting today, which is something that I believe escaped your attention.”

Captain Douglas seemed properly rattled, abruptly discovering her presence. “I do not see how it has anything to do with the conversation we were having,” he was quick to regain his bearings, but he kept one eye on her.

“Ms. Haught, why don’t you tell Captain Douglas what you’ve learned about his regiment from mere hours spent in his camp and in this room?” 

It all suddenly clicked for Nicole. This was no punishment. This was Nedley offering her a way to participate in the war effort. She straightened up and quickly tallied all the information she gathered from passing bread around the British camp. “The morale of your regiment is high, but most companies are expecting you to remain put in Quebec and don’t pursue the Americans. If you give the orders to march out too soon after the voyage across the Atlantic, you’ll have a mutiny on your hands, led by Corporal Smith. The Seventh Company experienced the highest losses during the journey due to numerous cases of smallpox, and they are at the highest risk of desertion – you’d do well to offer those men more days off and better provisions. Private Johnson had likely already deserted last night. Your plans of enlisting new local militiamen will likely fail as well, as your understanding of the _Canadien_, their – _our _– motivations and needs, is misguided and incomplete.” After a brief pause, Nicole added, “Sir,” to avoid sounding entirely impertinent. 

Captain Douglas blinked several times and burst out laughing, “Wow. And you’ve learned all that from leisurely strolling through my camp? That’s extraordinary!” 

“She is quite something, isn’t she?” Nedley asked good-naturedly, sending Nicole a stealthy wink. 

“I’ll tell you what, General. I’ll get you in touch with our intelligence officers in New York, and I’ll pass my recommendations to them. As long, that is, as you’re up for traveling into the enemy’s territory, Ms. Haught?” 

Nicole didn’t have to think twice about it, “Absolutely. The war will be decided in the American Colonies, and it would be a crime not to aid the Crown where I may be of most use.”

“Well, then. What an interesting development this is, indeed, Ms. Haught,” the Captain chuckled under his breath.

~XXX~

Smoothing out a crumpled piece of paper that she fished out of the trash, Waverly looked around skittishly. It wasn’t that she was doing something _categorically _wrong. In fact, when she thought about it long and hard, she could almost convince herself that what she was doing was exceptionally kind and that Wynonna would eventually come to thank her for it. 

Ever since John Henry hadn’t come back home after the Boston campaign but instead urged the Continental Congress to authorize an invasion of Quebec, Wynonna has been throwing his letters away with a devoted fury. Waverly, being a loyal sister that she was, recovered each and every one of those discarded messages – perhaps a bit due to curiosity, but mostly for safekeeping.

(Waverly tried not to overthink what it meant that they hadn’t received a single letter from their father since last year.)

The story painted in John Henry’s correspondence was meek even if he tried to make it sound less so. After the Continental Congress approved the attack of Canada based on his recommendation, John Henry had been unfairly passed over for command of the expedition. Once he had managed to convince the forces-that-be to allow him to head another regiment north and aid General Montgomery, 500 of his 1,100 men had either died or deserted on the way through the unhospitable Maine wilderness. When they’d finally arrived at the gates of Quebec City, most of his surviving men had been near starvation due to limited provisions they were granted – and how was he supposed to mount a successful attack with such a petty state of his army?! Really, it had been rather heroic how he managed to pull it all off, but the Continental Congress had passed him over for promotion yet again, giving credit to other officers for his accomplishments. The only reward for so valiantly proceeding with the planned attack after General Montgomery had been shot like a fool a mere hour into the operation had been a nasty musket would to his leg, which shattered it beyond usability.

Waverly felt terrible for him and so angry with the people who didn’t recognize his accomplishments. There were rumors of the Continental Army not having enough enlistments nor enough funds to continue with any reasonable operation. Why not reward the people who had showed their dedication to the cause over and over again?

Providing support to her sister in those trying times was challenging as well – Wynonna spent less and less time at home, choosing to stay at John Henry’s empty estate. When Waverly got to see her, she was either gloomy or seemingly indifferent, avoiding any conversation relating to the Revolution in general and John Henry in particular. The instances when Waverly smelled a hint of bourbon on Wynonna’s breath increased as well as the time went on. 

All of that justified Waverly’s actions in her mind, as she hid behind their shed to read yet another one of John Henry’s letters. This one was dated back to mid-May, so barely seven weeks ago. Scanning the page quickly, Waverly got the gist of it – John Henry had finally been promoted to Brigadier General thanks to his courageous siege of Quebec City that lasted half a year until the arrival of a new British contingent forced the American army out of Canada. The letter didn’t specify where John Henry’s company was headed for next; Waverly double-checked both sides of the sheet to make sure she didn’t miss anything before hiding the paper in her skirt pockets.

“Waverly! Are you coming, girl?” Waverly startled at mama’s holler. Right – they were supposed to ride to the city center to hear the Declaration of Independence be read.

“Coming!”

The ride was uneventful, yet Waverly was buzzing with curiosity and optimism. Ever since the news of the Continental Congress signing the statement divorcing the colonies from the Crown had arrived in the city five days ago, the excitement and newly renewed zeal were palpable. People wore Continental Colors and ribbons that read, “Liberty or Death” and “No Taxation without Representation.”

The square was filled to the brim with soldiers and sailors, but one man on horseback drew Waverly’s attention. “Isn’t that General Washington?” she asked her mother, a bit awestruck by seeing the man already immortalized by his accomplishments as the commander in chief of the Continental Army. 

“Indeed, it is,” mama responded, seemingly as at awe. 

Waverly thought she spotted her sister in the crowd speaking with a group of older gentlemen – the luscious wavy hair really did look similar – but the woman vanished as quickly as she appeared. Where even was Wynonna these days? Before she could start worrying too much, Waverly’s attention was diverted to the center of the square, where a man she didn’t recognize climbed on top of a make-shift stage and attempted to quiet the crowd. It was General Washington’s command though, clear and loud above the swarm of people, that precipitated an absolute silence.

The man on the stage cleared his throat and began reading the Declaration, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”

The powerful preamble brought tears to Waverly’s eyes. This is why they were there, fighting against the British oppressor. Tuning out the long list of British transgressions, she looked around at the faces of young soldiers, middle-aged destitute mothers, black slaves, all enraptured by the hopeful and simple declaration – they were all equal, they were all in this together.

“They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends,” the man continued, yet the cheers and roars of joy drowned his final words of separating the Colonies from the Crown. 

Before he finished reading the names of the signers of the Declaration, the crowd came to life, led by several of the so-called Sons of Liberty. They rushed down Broad Way, swarming, swelling, surging, until they reached Bowling Green, where an impressive statue of King George III sat on a horse, dressed in Roman garb. The crowd yelled profanities at the statue, some threw rotten vegetables at it, some spit in its general direction. Waverly was carried with the undulating wave of human heads and elevated emotions, screaming things at the inanimate object she would not be very proud of come tomorrow.

Things got out of hand once several leaders directed their slaves to scale over the fence protecting the King and topple the statue. Ropes attached, all 4,000 pounds of the leaded glory fell to the ground with a deafening thud, silencing the tumult for a heartbeat. After the reality of what had just happened came crushing back, the crowd erupted in cheers with a renewed vigor. The decorative tips of the fence posts, molded in a shape of a crown, were sawn off, leaving the fence looking crooked, naked, and pointlessly guarding something that wasn’t there any longer.

As people started dispersing, Waverly found mama, and the two women made their way back home. The quiet that enveloped them was overarching after the uproar of an overeager crowd. Waverly’s head pounded with the rhythm of her heartbeat. Her ears were still ringing. The excitement of the day faded away, leaving in its stead a feeling of dread and remorse.

Waverly tried not to think about the 130 British ships anchored off Staten Island, with more rumored to arrive each day. While the Declaration of Independence was sure to raise the diminishing morale, it probably also enraged the British even further.

~ 

Trembling from the late August night chill, dressed only in her flimsy nightgown, Waverly snuggled closer to Bessie the cow. She patted the poor creature, which was scared of the explosions and gunshots heard in the close distance. “Hush. It’s all right, girl. Everything will be all right.”

Waverly jumped as a powerful white blast pierced the night sky. The black mass of a cow didn’t even flinch. Who was she kidding? _She _was the one terrified, not Bessie. 

When the first shots had rung before midnight, Waverly ran downstairs looking for mama and Wynonna, but neither one was home. Both women have been extremely secretive as of late, meeting suspicious men, passing packages to strangers on the streets, scheming and whispering in hushed toned until early hours of the night. Waverly might have been young and naïve, but she knew something was brewing and she wanted in, yet when she confronted Wynonna, her sister dismissed her suspicions for paranoia and laughed it out. 

Alone and scared, not sure what else to do, Waverly had rushed outside, forgetting as little as a coat, and had hidden in the barn with Bessie.

Some New Yorkers left when the news of the British fleet arriving at Staten Island spread through the city, but the Earps, like most other poor families, had nowhere to flee. The word on the streets was that there was nothing to fear, that the panic-stricken people abandoning their homes were mere cowards, that Washington’s army would certainly defend the city of New York at all costs. Waverly had mostly believed these reassurances, until, that is, she was woken up in the middle of the night by a series of bangs and booms coming somewhere from the south, from the direction of Brookland.

Someone rushed into the barn just as another powerful explosion split the dark sky, illuminating the dark bulky figure with a bright backlight. Waverly screamed her lungs out, convinced that the British soldiers somehow managed to float over the East River in the depth of night. Not eager to die without putting up a fight, Waverly grabbed a nearby plunger she used to churn butter with and swung at the intruder. 

“Eat shit!” she screamed, but the stranger ducked and avoided the whack. 

“Waverly! It’s me!” the stranger yelled, putting their arms up in a universal sign of surrender. And wait, was that Wynonna’s voice? 

Breathing heavily, Waverly blinked several times owlishly, before tossing the plunger to the ground and throwing herself into her sister’s arms. Wynonna’s posture didn’t appear as bulky any longer. The shots and explosions suddenly sounded much more distant. 

“God, I was so worried,” Waverly disentangled herself from Wynonna and punched her upper arm for good measure. “Where have you been? And where’s mama? You can’t just disappear like that and… and leave me all alone,” her voice broke. 

“I know, I know. It wasn’t supposed to go down like that, that’s not what we’ve heard anyway, so this full-frontal attack on Long Island is a bit of a surprise for everyone,” Wynonna winced.

Waverly narrowed her eyes, “That’s not what _you’ve _heard? Wynonna, what’s going on? And don’t you dare deflect this time – I’m not paranoid, I see that you’re somehow involved with the fight.” 

Sighing and rubbing her forehead in defeat, Wynonna said, “You’re too smart for your own good, kid... I’m going to tell you something, but you have to promise to keep it to yourself, no sharing with anyone – not the baker, not the mailman, not even the goddamned pastor – am I making myself clear?”

Waverly nodded eagerly, eyes large as saucers. She was finally going to be included in her family’s fight against the enemy.

“All right,” Wynonna took a deep breath, as you do right before diving in a pond. “Mama and I help gather and pass certain… _sensitive _information to the Continental Army.” 

Waverly took a few long seconds to process the information. She had thought that maybe… Well, she didn’t really know how the women could be involved with the war, but she never even imagined this scenario, and she had quite a creative imagination if she dared say so herself. 

“So, what? Are you, like, a spy? Ohhh, did you get a codename? Something cool, like _bacon donut_? Can I get a codename? What would it be?” Waverly’s words came rapid-fire, like the shots outside. 

“Woah, woah, woah! Slow down, babygirl. I only told you about it so that you can stop worrying about us. But you’re _not _getting a codename because you won’t be involved in any of this.”

“What? No! Come on, Wynonna,” Waverly knew her voice turned whiny, but she couldn’t even bring herself to care. “You can’t seriously expect me to stay at home while you and mama are involved in something consequential like that, and daddy… well, daddy…”

A heavy silence fell around the sisters. Neither one was ready to vocalize what had been their greatest fear over the past year of complete lack of correspondence from their father.

Wynonna cleared her throat, a bit awkwardly, a bit choked up, “No, you see, Waves, that’s exactly why you need to stay safe.” 

“And how am I supposed to accomplish that, Wynonna, with the British Army on our doorsteps? Please, let me help. I might as well get my hands dirty if I’m in danger either way.” 

“I swear that it’s not as bad as it seems, babygirl. Washington’s Army is being transferred across the East River as we speak to reinforce the Long Island troops. You’ll be safe here, at home. The lobsters will never set foot on Manhattan Island,” Wynonna tried to persuade her. 

“Do you promise?” Waverly wanted to swallow the childish question back as soon as she spoke it. 

“I promise.”

~XXX~ 

Three weeks later, on September 15, New York City fell into the British hands. General Washington withdrew his army north without a fight, surrendering the city and the harbor to the British who held it as an important strategic port for the rest of the war. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prostitutes from Quebec City were indeed sent to spread smallpox amongst the American army besieging the city. Some say these women were purposefully inoculated with the virus; some say they already had it. The result was that about half (!) of the 10,000 men stationed there contracted smallpox, and probably a third of them died. It was one of the first uses of bioweapons in human history. The American army was in such disarray after the outbreak that they retreated without a fight at first sight of British reinforcements docking into the St. Lawrence River. You could say that the Quebecoise prostitutes defeated the American troops.
> 
> After the newly signed Declaration of Independence was read in New York City, a mob lead by the Sons of Liberty rushed to Bowling Green and toppled the statue of the British king, George III. Unlike in Quebec City, where you can still visit numerous sites from the Revolutionary War, New York City grew and swallowed most of it. Bowling Green is now a city park (although, I’d call it more of a plaza than a park) and one of the very few places you can still visit that has some connection to these events.  
There are several paintings depicting that night. Below are my favorites:  
  



	3. 1777. Lydia Darragh

_ 1777._

Waverly was hauling a metal milk jug into the house when she heard knocking on the front door. Dragging the heavy pitcher the last few inches into the kitchen – Bessie really outdid herself this morning! – Waverly rushed to get the door, curious who might that be, but mama beat her to it.

“Good morning, ma’am. Is your husband home?” a soft-spoken man, with an unmistakably English accent, asked at the door.

After a beat, mama responded, “No, sir. The old fool went and likely gotten himself killed in that asinine childish war of theirs.” Waverly would have been worried about the statement if it wasn’t for the fake saccharine tone of her mother’s voice. 

“Very well, then.” The man at the door cleared his throat. “I’m Major John André, an aide to General Howe. I’m here to requisition the use of your house for the General’s staff,” Major announced, and turning to somebody Waverly couldn’t see, added, “Captain, inspect the property, as I speak with Mrs.…” 

He paused long enough for mama to provide, “Earp. Mrs. Earp. Please, come in, Major.” 

Waverly hid behind the kitchen door, from where she had a good vantage point for observing the unexpected visitor unnoticed. The man was slender and young, perhaps only a year or two older than Wynonna, and wore a fitted dress uniform and a fashionable white wig. There was an anxious air to him, as he nervously fiddled with a medallion of St. Christopher hanging on a silver necklace around his neck. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to request that you and your family vacate the premises for as long as the General requires,” he announced, clearly uncomfortable. 

Waverly frowned. If they had anywhere to go, they’d be gone at first sight of the British fleet arriving at Staten Island. Thankfully, that line of reasoning was precisely the course of action mama chose. As there was something gentle and affable about him, Waverly left mama to explain their situation to the man. 

She wasn’t allowed to participate in whatever secret network Wynonna and mama were a part of, but she was adamant that she could be useful. It was a perfect opportunity to prove her worth by saving the roof over their heads. Walking out the back door in search of the Captain, Waverly had a vestige of a plan formed. She took her cap off, but left the hair up in a bun, and loosened the kerchief around her neck. It couldn’t be _that_ hard – she’d seen Wynonna manipulate men countless times, bending their actions to her own wishes effortlessly. 

“Hello there,” Waverly addressed the man walking around their barn in what she hoped was a sultry voice, but what perhaps came out a bit too queer.

Startled, the soldier looked up at her. “Miss,” was his short greeting. 

A man of a few words then. Waverly sauntered closer, trying to sway her hips like she’d seen Wynonna do, one hand on her waist. “What are you doing out here?” she asked, trying for familiar and aloof, yet after facing his cold, measured expression, she quickly added, losing all of the feigned swagger, “if you… if you don’t mind me asking, sir.”

The Captain continued to quietly scrutinize her for what felt like minutes, causing Waverly to tighten her neck kerchief subconsciously and to play with it nervously afterward. He was a polar opposite of the Major she left inside with mama; tall, muscular, he had a certain brutish quality to him. Where the Major seemed like the type of a British gentleman who plays piano and speaks multiple languages, this man gave off an aura of a Canadian fur trader, who could chop a tree down in no time and kill a bear with his bare hands.

“Nah, I don’t mind ya askin’, lass. It’s a nice property you ‘ave ‘ere! I’m just lookin’ ‘round tae make sure it’d be secure enough for the General’s staff,” he said in a strong Irish brogue. His face transformed into a soft, toothy grin, and he suddenly didn’t appear as terrifying. 

“Oh, it really is a lovely piece of land. And I’d say your General has nothing to worry about – the only families who stayed in the city are the Loyalists to the Crown,” she slowly regained her footing and went for sweet more so than sensual this time. It helped that it came more naturally to her. “I’m Waverly. Waverly Earp.” She extended a hand in greeting.

“Captain William Gibson. A pleasure.” He took Waverly’s hand in a surprisingly soft manner, as if afraid of crushing it in his large palms. “That’s good tae know. We’ve been welcomed quite warmly in the city, but one can never be certain how far this little revolt reached intae the ’earts of the children of the Crown.”

_Captain Gibson_, _Captain Gibson_… Waverly’s brows knitted involuntarily, as she hurriedly tried to recall the family lineage on her mother’s side. With the man’s strong Irish accent, a sliver of possibility crossed her mind. “You said your last name was Gibson? Oh, what a coincidence! That’s my mother’s maiden name! Where are you from, Captain?” 

“Dublin. ‘nd your mum?” 

“Born and raised in Dublin as well!” Waverly couldn’t believe her luck. “Granny Gibson stayed in Ireland, but she sent my mama here when she was but a girl in search of a better life.”

“Go on outta that! What’s ya’r granny’s name, lass?”

“It’s Nellie. I mean, my mama always called her Grandma Nellie, but I guess her full name would have been Ellen. Ellen Gibson.”

The man blinked rapidly. His mouth fell open just a notch. “Now, as I live ‘nd breathe! Ya must be aunt Michelle’s kid! My dad – may ‘e rest in peace – used tae talk ‘nd talk ‘nd talk about ‘is little sister bein’ sent off tae America. ‘e was angry at ‘is parents for separating them ‘til ‘is last breath. Ya see, there were eight of them, aunt Michelle bein’ the youngest, ‘nd grandpop just couldn’t afford all of them.” 

Waverly faltered in astonishment. She was hoping for a distant familial connection, but this was rather unexpected. “So you’re… You’re my cousin?”

“Sure as ‘ell am. Come ‘ere.” He opened his brawny arms, expecting a hug. 

Waverly indulged him for a brief moment before pulling him toward the house. “You have to meet my mama. She won’t believe it!” 

Her mind raced with so many conflicting emotions. She’s never met a cousin before – their family comprising of only the five of them for as long as she could remember. Sure, she heard stories of grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts and uncles, cousins and other kinsmen, but living in remote Britain, they always felt as distant as characters in fictional tales. And now, here was this man who was the closest family she’s ever met besides her parents and her sisters, but the cruel fate placed him on the opposing side of this conflict. He was the enemy, even if he was her kin. Waverly has never considered how a generation was all that sometimes separated the sides of this war.

Entering the house through the back door, Captain-Cousin in tow, Waverly walked in on mama pacing the length of the kitchen as was her habit when she was contemplating a seemingly unsolvable problem. 

“Mama?” Waverly tried to get the woman’s attention.

“Not now, Waverly. We’re being evicted from our own house, and I’m trying to figure out where on earth we could go. Perhaps we could stay at John Henry’s, but it seems awfully presumptuous to use the man’s house when he’s gone.” Tapping her chin thoughtfully, mama didn’t even notice a stranger in their kitchen.

Captain-Cousin Gibson took off his hat and addressed her directly before Waverly had a chance to introduce him, “I may be able tae ‘elp, ma’am.” 

Mama startled but, noticing the red military jacket, immediately plastered a fake smile on her face, like the one she used with the Major. “You must be the Captain that arrived here with Major André. I’m afraid he’s left already, leaving us in quite a predicament, as you must have heard. If there is anything you could do to persuade him to allow a poor widow and her young daughter to stay in their home, we’d be eternally grateful.”

He stole a quick glance at Waverly. “Tae tell ya the truth, I can do ya a one better ‘nd take it up directly tae General Howe. I was just speakin’ with ya’r daughter, ‘nd we discovered some exonerating circumstances that’ll likely please the General.” 

“Oh, and what might those circumstances be?” Mama’s voice was as saccharine as before, but a hint of suspicion crept its way into her tone. She looked with both surprise and reproach at Waverly, as if she was already convinced that she had made an unseemly deal with the man.

“Well, ma’am, it’d appear that we’re related, me bein’ Jim Gibson’s son. ‘nd Waverly ‘ere tells me ya’re good people, loyal tae the King. General Howe is big on the Loyalists’ support so it shouldn’t be too ‘ard to convince ‘im tae let you stay,” Captain Gibson tried sounding nonchalant, but his broad grin betrayed his excitement.

Mama’s face went through an emotional journey from confusion to astonishment, eventually arriving at a genuine elation and glee. The fake smile she had worn in front of Major André was replaced by affection and a few emotional tears that she hastily wiped off. 

“Oh my, you must be James’ boy. Billy, was it? Just look at you!” She grabbed the Captain by his upper arms and sized him up. Waverly held her breath, hoping her mother wouldn’t go on to pinching the man’s cheeks. 

“I prefer _William_, now that I’m older, ma’am.” He smiled bashfully. 

“Of course, of course. _William_. And drop that _ma’am_ with me.” She slapped his arm playfully. “It’s aunt Michelle to you. I can’t believe you’re actually here! Last time I heard from James, you were just ten years old and getting into trouble left and right. It’s such a pity he passed away so young – your father, I mean. We were thick as thieves, he and I… But enough of that sentimental nonsense, come in and tell us all about yourself and the family,” mama rambled, skillfully directing the much larger man into the kitchen. Before either one of them knew what was happening, both Waverly and Captain Gibson – _William_ – were sat at the kitchen table sipping red root infusion. 

As William dived into retelling the Gibson clan’s history of the past two decades, their successes, misfortunes, and various adventures, Waverly tuned him out, not really able to place many of the names he mentioned. She focused on mama instead, trying to figure out where the sudden change of her attitude toward the British officers came from. Just because they were vaguely related, didn’t negate in Waverly’s mind what the red coat William wore represented.

Mama seemed genuinely interested in his stories, hanging on his every word, laughing at the most banal jokes. Long forgotten was the predicament they found themselves in. Seeing how the precious minutes ticked away, Waverly decided to steer the conversation back to his offer.

“So, William, you mentioned you may be able to put a word for us with General Howe?”

“Waverly, don’t be impertinent. Your cousin is our guest, and that’s not a sort of thing to discuss at the table,” she was promptly scolded by her mother. 

She pouted, seconds away from reminding mama that they were, in fact, not Loyalist, nor were they even neutral in the conflict like the pacifist Quakers. The Earps believed in American independence and actively participated in the revolution – mama would do well to remember that much. 

William’s reassurance prevented Waverly from saying something that could jeopardize their only chance at staying home. “I don’t mind one bit, aunt Michelle. It’s actually time for me tae return tae my other obligations.”

“Duty calls. I understand, William.” Mama placed a maternal hand on his arm.

“I will pass your request tae the General. Seein’ ‘ow there are only two bedrooms in the ‘ouse but a fairly sizeable sittin’ room, I will recommend that it be used as a meetin’ space for the officers, while other accommodations are sought out for sleepin’ quarters. I ‘ope that won’t be too much of an imposition?” 

“Oh no, not at all,” mama seemed a bit taken aback. “But, uhm… You may have to coordinate your visits with Waverly, as I occasionally help at the mill at the most random hours.” 

Well, that was a blatant lie if Waverly ever heard one. Mama must have realized that her frequent absences were bound to raise questions. At least her priorities appeared untarnished. 

~

Sneaking quietly down the stairs in the darkness, Waverly was careful to avoid specific steps – the board in the third step from the top was creaky along its entire length, while the last two stairs squeaked if you placed too much weight on the front. Making it all the way downstairs, she paused to listen if her presence was detected.

Not registering anything out of the ordinary, Waverly exhaled with relief and continued to creep toward the sitting room’s door, where a party of several British officers was holding a meeting. It was the fourth time they’d used the Earps’ house, the fourth time they’d arrived early in the evening and requested that both women retire to their bedrooms for the night. Waverly had followed mama’s example the first three times and had complied with the order disguised as a polite request. Tonight though, mama was gone on one of her late-night errands with Wynonna, and Waverly was left to her own devices.

The opportunity was too good to pass. After William had thanked her for preparing the tea for them all – the only benefit, really, of having the lobsters in your home was the never-ending supply of high-quality tea – Waverly had excused herself. She hadn’t missed the grateful smiles she’d received from both William and Major André, as neither one of the men seemed particularly comfortable with having to oust the hostess out of her own sitting room. She had left the men with her signature kind smile – winning their trust was much easier than she’d expected. 

The harder part came then, as Waverly perched herself right outside the sitting room, ear nearly touching the door. She wasn’t sure what she was listening for exactly, but she was certain that whatever it was the officers needed privacy to discuss must have been of utmost importance. 

Random thought of the potential consequences of being caught eavesdropping on the highest-ranking British military personnel in the City of New York crossed Waverly’s mind, causing her palms to sweat. She closed her eyes and tried to regulate her breathing, not able to hear anything beyond the sound of blood whooshing in her ears. Sweating profusely, Waverly silently cursed her cowardly disposition – perhaps Wynonna had been right that she wasn’t made for it and she would be better off smiling sweetly at the enemy in their sitting room and serving them tea, while other people risked their lives for the American independence. 

Waverly frowned at the internal monologue ravaging her mind. She closed her palms in tight fists and resolved to prove the voice in her head – a voice that sounded suspiciously like her sister – that she could do this. Taking a few deep breaths, Waverly focused on the voices coming from behind the closed door.

“I agree with your assessment, General Howe,” came the polished note of Major André’s voice. “We should mount a surprise attack on the Continental Army camped at Whitemarsh. Washington is not expecting another battle before the onset of winter, and his troops are battered and poorly equipped. This is our best chance of destroying his army once and for all.” 

“Yes, it indeed is. Gather all the companies, Major. Ten thousand men should easily overpower the unsuspecting Yankees. We will march a week from tomorrow, and shall have a victory in our pocket by the end of the year.”

Waverly jumped away from the door at pronounced scrapping of chair legs against the wood floor and shuffling of feet. She darted up the stairs, terrified of being discovered, yet quietly repeating the information she’s just heard under her breath, “Whitemarsh, a week after tomorrow, ten thousand men. Whitemarsh, a week after tomorrow, ten thousand men.” Her long nightshift obstructed her movement, and she pulled it up to above her knees as she retreated as noiselessly as possible.

Getting into the bed she had shared with Wynonna when her sister still lived at home, Waverly pulled the quilt over her entire body, including her head. She waited with bated breath, listening to the heavy footsteps of military boots milling about the house. At the sound of the front door shutting close, Waverly released an anxious breath and uncovered her head. An eerie silence, punctuated by the wind whistling outside, met her straining ears. She was finally alone. 

Kicking the heavy quilt off and getting up to her feet, Waverly began pacing the length of her bedroom – a habit she’d apparently picked up from mama. The information she’d procured was more important than she could have imagined and she had to think quickly and decide what to do with it. The weight of that decision, of the responsibility, was surprisingly not as great as she would have expected. 

Waverly continued walking back and forth, pondering the best course of action. Her first thought was that she ought to take that information to Wynonna first thing in the morning and let her pass it on to General Washington through the proper channels. Yes, that surely was the safest and most reliable approach. Wynonna would not only know what to do, but she might also commend Waverly on so stealthily attaining such a hot piece of intelligence. That might exactly be the breakthrough Waverly needed to be allowed to participate in Wynonna’s covert operations. 

On second thought… It was _Wynonna_ she was thinking about – her overprotective, overbearing, cocksure jerk of an older sister. In reality, Wynonna would more likely scold her all the way from here to Boston and lock her up in her bedroom for _her own safety_, while passing the information to General Washington and taking all the credit for it herself. Waverly scowled and crossed her arms over her chest defensively. Oh no, she wouldn’t let that happen. She needed to think of a different plan, and quick.

Picking up her pace, Waverly considered her other options. She could try to deliver the message to the Continental Army on her own. Whitemarsh was only a couple-hours walk outside of the city, after all. She could do it. She could leave in the morning and be back by nightfall. 

A discouraging thought crossed Waverly’s mind, _What about the lobsters?_ In spite of the seemingly friendly disposition of the British soldiers, Manhattan Island was under foreign occupation; the movement of local residents was heavily obstructed and monitored. Waverly realized that she couldn’t just walk outside of the city limits without a plan – she’d be stopped and questioned, likely to be turned back home without a proper explanation. The Continental Army would be dealt a defeating blow a week later, and the war would be lost, all because Waverly was reckless enough not to think of a good enough reason to travel outside of New York.

Now, that spiraled out of control rather quickly… Waverly shook her head to regain her focus. _Think, think, think!_ What would a young woman need that a British soldier wouldn’t question?

Then it dawned on her – mama’s excuse of helping at the mill went unquestioned for weeks, nobody inquired about her actual role or the specific miller she supposedly worked for. Waverly would request permission from General Howe to cross the British lines in order to get flour from Harlem Heights – getting an audience with the General wouldn’t be awfully difficult with a little help from cousin William. And she was sure that neither her cousin nor the General would question a woman’s need for cooking supplies – most men didn’t know the first thing about baking, and none of the British officers cared enough to know that there were two perfectly fine mills within the city limits. 

The plan was flawless – Waverly would drop an empty flour bag at the mill in Harlem Heights and continue on to the Continental Army encampment at Whitemarsh. Coming back, she’d pick up her flour, leaving the lobsters none the wiser. 

Waverly didn’t sleep at all that night, going through the plan countless times to ensure there were no weak links in the chain of events, and practicing the request for General Howe in her mind over and over again. She was certain her actions would not only warn the American Army but also impress her older sister into allowing Waverly into their spy ring. 

~XXX~

Thanks to Waverly’s brave actions, the Continental Army at Whitemarsh was not obliterated that winter. Major John André, trusting Waverly’s assertion that she’d gone to bed that night and hadn’t heard anything, was at a loss. He proclaimed, “One thing is certain – the enemy had notice of our coming, were prepared for us, and we marched back like a parcel of fools. The walls must have ears.” 

~XXX~

Living in the City of New York was, frankly speaking, crap. Nicole had only spent a week there, but she was already convinced of the superiority of Quebec City. First of all, what was going on with the weather? It was nearly December, for crying out loud! It should be snowing instead of this undefinable, slushy precipitation coming down from the sky with a vengeance. Nicole was also grumpy with the food choices – why would anyone assume she’d want to eat a _fried_ egg for breakfast? There was no decent maple syrup in sight, and don’t even get her started on what those Yankees considered as bacon.

Located on the tip of an island, the design of the city reminded Nicole of her home town. But while Quebec City remained unconquered last year due to cleverly placed fortifications and skillfully used natural features, the Americans surrendered New York without utilizing any of the advantages they were given. While surprised with the stupidity of it all, Nicole supposed she shouldn’t really complain about that fact too much – it allowed the British an easy victory after all. 

Grouchy and irritable, Nicole was on her way to meet a local family that could potentially offer her a roof over her head. Nedley had gotten her in contact with a British officer in the city, Major André – a delicate man, curious to utilize a woman for intelligence purposes. Deciding it would be best if Nicole became fully immersed in the New York society, the Major had suggested that one of his subordinates – Captain Gibson – introduce her to his American kin. 

Walking with the happy-go-lucky Captain, Nicole couldn’t avoid comparing him to an overexcited golden retriever puppy. Even though they were under a wet, sleety deluge, and their feet were constantly slipping on a muddy road, Captain Gibson was enthusiastically yapping away about things Nicole could hardly comprehend. His harsh Irish accent didn’t help either.

Pointing at a small stone house a few paces ahead, the Captain said, “That there is the Earp’s ‘ouse. Relax a bit – aunt Michelle is a no-nonsense kind ’a lady.” He grinned and clasped her on the shoulder with his bearish hand as if they were good friends and had not, in fact, just met. Nicole’s level of cranky just reached a new high. 

Akin to their neighbors, the property was fairly large, with a stone house, a vegetable garden, a chicken coop, and a barn. The view reminded her of the countryside – the sprawling nature of New York was still a cause of wonderment for Nicole who was used to a town limited from all sides either by natural boundaries or by city walls. Looking down Bowery Lane that seemed to sprout newer buildings the further you got from the city center, Nicole briefly wondered if New York would ever stop growing or if one day it would consume the entire island of Manhattan, like some unthinkable gargantuan city-state. 

Entering the house behind the bulky back of Captain Gibson, Nicole plastered a cordial smile on her face. Based on her surrounding, she was expecting Mrs. Earp to be a middle-aged woman of a kindhearted disposition, who spent her days tending to the chickens, performing light yard work, and taking care of the household. What she was met with, however, couldn’t have been further from her expectations. 

“Get back here, you devil! You scoundrel! I swear to god, I’ll have your neck for this!” a clearly upset woman screamed, running around the sitting room; her blond hair was set free of a customary bun and disheveled. The source of her anger made itself known, when a large rooster half ran, half flew toward the unsuspecting visitors, baring its sharp claws. Nicole panicked momentarily, as she had never been around poultry before but have had heard stories about their malicious characters. 

Her worries were for naught, as Captain Gibson grabbed the bird effortlessly and held its beak shut for a moment before it stopped thrashing. “Seems tae me this boy forgot who’s the boss ‘round ‘ere. Where do ya want ‘im, aunt Michelle?” he asked with a contagious grin.

“Oh, William. Thank god you’re back.” Mrs. Earp caught her breath, both hands holding her waist. “Just put him in the coop, would you?”

“Sure thing.” He paused, pointing the rooster at Nicole. “Let me introduce ya tae the woman Major André mentioned tae ya yesterday. This is Nicole ‘aught. Ms. ‘aught, this is Mrs. Earp.” With that, he walked through a hallway, toward what Nicole suspected to be a backdoor of the house, the rooster still securely nestled in his large palms.

“Call me Michelle,” Mrs. Earp said, assertively extending her hand in greeting. She had a certain air of assuredness and haughtiness about her Nicole had not expected.

“Nicole.” She was quick to shake the proffered hand. 

“Come in for a tea,” Michelle waved her over to the kitchen. “How are you finding the city so far?”

“Oh, it’s been great,” Nicole lied through the teeth. “Some great people and a, uhm… a nice… city layout you have here, eh,” she finished lamely. 

Michelle eyed her curiously. “Major André mentioned you were out of town. But with that accent, I assume you’re not even from the Colonies?”

“No, ma’am.” Nicole swallowed nervously, although she couldn’t pinpoint what about this woman made her anxious. By Captain Gibson’s account, the Earps were a kind, Loyalist family; she had nothing to worry about. “Born and raised in Quebec City.”

Setting a steaming kettle on the table, Michelle didn’t conceal her surprise. “You’ve come a long way during such tumultuous times. I trust your family was safe during the siege?”

“Oh, yes. I uhm… My mother is Canadien, and she and my brother left the city before the Continental Army arrived at our doorsteps. I stayed and…” but the rest of her explanation was cut short by a commotion in a hallway.

“Lean to the right, Waves. It’s not gonna fit if you keep pushing straight ahead.” Nicole heard a woman’s voice that pulled her attention away from the conversation.

“I swear, Wynonna, if you don’t shut up with your directions… Why, pray tell, are we dragging this… this _pig_… home?” another voice huffed with exertion and annoyance. 

“You’re making a great harvest of a little corn, babygirl. I told you that I got it as a payment for, you know… And shut up about it, because I saw William in the back.”

“Oh, pfft,” came an articulate riposte, which inexplicably brought a smile to Nicole’s face. It sure sounded as if whoever this _Waves_ person was, just stuck their tongue out at the other woman. 

A strong hand on her upper arm brought Nicole back to the kitchen. Michelle looked at her with a certain burning intensity Nicole couldn’t place. “A _Canadien_, huh? Well, I’ll be glad to provide an _ally_ with room and board.” She sent her a wink just as two women entered the kitchen carrying a large hog hanging on a stick. 

Under any other circumstances Nicole would have been alert enough to question what Michelle had meant; she would have noticed how her countenance had changed ever so slightly when Captain Gibson entered the kitchen behind the two women; would have carefully examined the significance behind that wink. As it was, however, Nicole was dumbstruck by an appearance of the most beautiful woman she has ever laid her eyes on. 

The girl who stole Nicole’s breath, as well as her wit and her tongue, carried the back end of the pig stick, with apparent displeasure painting her beautiful features. She was petite, with light brown hair sticking out from underneath her white cap. The storm raging just beneath the surface of her body was nearly palpable. Dropping her end of the stick as soon as the duo was far enough in the kitchen, the girl marched toward the kettle and poured herself a cup of tea, not paying Nicole any heed.

“Ah, and here are my daughters. Nicole, please meet Wynonna,” Michelle indicated the taller brunette first, and pointing at the fury incarnate, added, “and her younger sister, Waverly.”

“Hi,” came a short greeting from Wynonna, accompanied by a small yet genuine smile and a wave from Waverly. 

The small gesture rendered Nicole even more speechless if that’s possible. She felt her face burn bright red, and she realized belatedly that she still hadn’t uttered a word. 

Oblivious to her inner struggle, Michelle continued with the introductions, “Nicole will be staying with us for the time being. Seeing how your sister is never home these days, you’ll be sharing your room with her, Waverly.” 

“Oh, what a splendid idea!” Wynonna clapped her hands with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Does it mean that I don’t have to babysit Waverly any longer? If we spend another entire day in each other’s presence, I swear one of us will not make it out alive.” Apparently, the older Earp sister had a penchant for drama. 

Nicole wondered what on earth could that angel have done to justify someone keeping an eye on her around-the-clock. Her thoughts must have shown on her face, as Wynonna provided with more enthusiasm than the statement warranted, “Our little Waverly, here, is quite a daredevil. Always getting herself into trouble with… with boys. If you decide to stay and chaperone her, you’ll have your work cut out for you, Duke of Limbs.”

_Trouble with boys_, Nicole thought dejectedly, trying to measure Waverly with a fresh eye. She scolded herself for trusting someone’s appearances alone – in her line of duty, she ought to be more careful with making any sorts of snap judgments. 

“Wynonna,” Waverly scolded, stomping her foot petulantly. “Stop spreading lies about me,” she hissed. 

“What lies?” came a booming voice of Captain Gibson, who was stood in the doorway. “Ain’t that the reason y’all had that fallin’ out a few weeks back?” He looked like a confused pup.

For a brief second Waverly looked like a cornered rabbit – eyes wide open, mouth slightly agape. _Curious_. Whatever reason Michelle had for keeping a closer eye on her younger daughter, Nicole could tell it wasn’t the excuse they gave the trusting Captain. A sudden ping of hope in her chest felt like an ice sheet breaking on the St. Lawrence River in the spring – pure, refreshing, and deadly.

“William, hi!” Waverly’s voice was a bit too high. “Oh, no, no. I mean, yeah. But it was all a misunderstanding, and mama just blew it out of proportion, and you know how overprotective Wynonna is, and… yeah,” she rambled on. 

Nicole caught Wynonna’s not-so-subtle eye-roll. “Anyway, William, where have you been, man? I haven’t seen you, in like, two weeks.” 

It wasn’t a subtle change of subject, but it worked on Captain Gibson nonetheless. “Yes, ya see, we were supposed tae crush the rebels at Whitemarsh with a surprise attack, but on arriving near the encampment of General Washington, we found ‘is cannon mounted, ‘is troops under arms ‘nd so prepared at every point tae receive us that we were compelled tae march back, without injuring our enemy, like a parcel of fools.”

Nicole only half-listened to the man, utterly enamored with Waverly instead, who was suddenly trying to smooth out every crease in her petticoat. 

“We must ‘ave been betrayed, ‘nd I was going tae ask ya, aunt Michelle ‘nd ya, dear cousins, if ya’d seen any suspicious men milling about ya’r property as of late,” the Captain continued, and the mention of betrayal brought Nicole’s attention back to the conversation. “Ya see, we’d only discussed the plan’ ere in ya’r ‘ouse, ‘nd General Howe is convinced someone must ‘ave been listening in on us from the outside or else ‘ow would they ‘ave known, ya know?”

It was an interesting piece of information that Nicole made sure to catalog for later. As luck would have it, she had found herself in the center of an intelligence leak; she decided she ought to be careful with what information she divulged within these walls, as they apparently had ears. 

Nicole’s curiosity to learn more was tempered by Michelle. “Waverly, why don’t you show Nicole upstairs, while Wynonna and I discuss this matter with William? If true, it’s a serious problem, and I wouldn’t want you to worry too much.” 

“Oh, absolutely. ‘nd just so ya know, I’ve requested that we find a different meeting spot, for ya’r safety. I wouldn’t want my kin tae be accidentally caught in the crossfire.” 

Raising her eyes away from her petticoat, Waverly examined Captain Gibson curiously before turning to Nicole with the sweetest smile she’s ever been graced with. “Of course, mama. Nicole, was it?” She started walking toward the staircase, causing Nicole to scramble hurriedly from her seat, leaving the rest of their company with perfunctory goodbyes. “Let me show you the room – it’s quite spacious since daddy converted the entire attic into a single room. There should be enough drawer space for your belongings, as Wynonna pretty much lives at John Henry’s now,” Waverly blushed prettily. “But it’s not like that – John Henry has been gone for over two years now, and somebody has to take care of his house.” 

They trudged up the stairs, as Waverly continued to babble away. It didn’t bother Nicole in the slightest. If anything, it made her even more curious about this gorgeous woman.

As they entered the bedroom and Nicole took stock of the place, it wasn’t the spaciousness she noticed first; it wasn’t the picturesque view out the window either; what drew Nicole’s eyes was the single bed placed in the center of the room. Of course, it made sense there was only one bed. Of course, the sisters had shared a bed before Wynonna all but moved out. How did she forget that both Major André and Captain Gibson asked her specifically if she minded sharing a bed with a stranger? And, god help her, why had she been so indifferent about that, claiming there would be no issue with such an arrangement whatsoever?

Nicole swallowed harshly and looked at Waverly pointing at various features of the room. Oh, she could already _spy_ several issues with this arrangement, all of them centered around one very talkative, very pretty girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waverly’s actions in this chapter are based on Lydia Darragh, a woman from Philadelphia who saved Washington’s army from a surprise British attack in the winter of 1777, although the real-life Lydia was considerably older than Waverly. 
> 
> When the British first occupied Philadelphia, Major Andre requested the use of the Darragh’s house. Lydia protested that they had nowhere else to go. She took her complaint all the way to the British commander, General Howe, where she met a soldier who had the same last name as her maiden name and spoke with a strong Irish accent. You guessed it – he was her cousin and helped the Darraghs get the permission to remain home. Since they were Quakers, who generally were pacifists preferring to stay out of the war, the British command didn’t see any threat in holding important meetings at the Darraghs’ house. Of course, Lydia spied on them and – after learning about the impending attack on the Continental Army – she obtained permission from General Howe to cross the British lines to “get flour” but went to the American camp instead to warn them.  
The British expected the American troops to be in disarray but found the camp prepared and ready for a battle. Shocked and surprised, the British army got caught in a 4-day standoff, after which they simply turned around and went back to Philadelphia. The British officers couldn’t phantom how that information got out, and all the quotes in this chapter are true – they were more willing to assume that the walls had ears than to think that a woman had enough smarts and courage to spy on them. 
> 
> If it wasn’t for Lydia Darragh’s actions, Washington's army would likely have been defeated in 1777, and the future of North America would have been much, much different.


	4. 1778. Ann Bates

_ 1778. _

“God, I’d murder for a cup of real tea. Do you have any of the good stuff left, sis? After the lobsters stopped coming around?” Wynonna announced at the door, in lieu of a greeting.

“Good morning to you too,” Waverly rolled her eyes playfully. She hadn’t seen her sister in weeks, and although Wynonna’s entrance may have seemed impertinent to some, Waverly knew she was happy to be back home. “Sit down. I’ll steep you some.”

“You’re an angel!” Wynonna barreled inside the kitchen, throwing her cloak carelessly over a chair. 

“Thank cousin William. He still brings us more whenever we run low.” 

“Ha! What a bloke!” Wynonna mocked, making herself comfortable in their father’s chair. 

As Waverly prepared the tea, Wynonna looked around. “I missed home,” she sighed, but as being visibly vulnerable was not her thing, she quickly added with a mischievous grin, “Where’s Carrot Tops? She was avoiding me like the plague last time I visited.” 

“Well, maybe it’s because you insist on giving her those ridiculous nicknames!” Waverly countered. She didn’t know why, but she felt obligated to defend Nicole.

“Is that what she told you? Wouldn’t have taken her for a fragile type…”

“She’s not. And she didn’t tell me anything.” Setting the teapot on the table, Waverly frowned, “We hardly ever speak, really.”

Savoring the hot tea, Wynonna hummed into the cup. Once she detached herself from the golden liquid, she added, “Why, though? It seemed the two of you hit it off quite well when she first moved in.”

“I don’t know, Wyn.” Waverly tried to pretend Nicole’s reserved behavior toward her didn’t bring her anguish, but even she heard the soft whine in her tone. Apparently, so did Wynonna, if her raised eyebrow was anything to go by. “Well, it’s not like I’ve been rude to her! I press her clothes sometimes, I make extra breakfast in case she wants to join mama and me, and I offered to show her around town. Oh, and once I even brushed her hair before bed when she was exceptionally tired! That’s what friends do, after all.” 

Wynonna cringed as if Waverly had listed a number of offensive actions. “Listen, kid. I know you are the most likable person in this town, or whatever, but not everyone will respond to your brand of charm and affection the same way. And that’s all right, you know? Maybe just cool it off a bit – you’re coming off as needy.”

Waverly’s protests died on her tongue. She whispered instead, “I just want her to like me.” Resting her chin in the palm of her hand, she shook her head wistfully. “Nicole is just such an incredibly caring person, you know? Like, right now, she’s out in White Plains, selling products at low cost to the Patriot Army camped out there. It takes such a dedication to ride three hours one way just to be able to provide some basic relief to our soldiers.” Her face split in a grin. “And the level of courage it takes to cross the British lines repeatedly! I did it once, and to this day it’s probably been the most daring and nerve-wracking twelve hours of my life.” 

“Yeah, and hopefully it will be the last time you attempt something of such moronic proportions. I know you think that mama and I overreacted keeping you on house arrest after you pulled that one, but it was really irresponsible. And if you ask me, Red is also toeing a thin line here,” Wynonna reproached, somewhat hypocritically, _if you asked Waverly_. “Plus, I’m sure she likes you. What’s not to like? If anything, I’d have a problem finding something interesting about her – she always seems to have a stick up her backside,” her sister tried to comfort her in her own backward way. 

“Sure, she is much more collected than anyone else our age. But she’s also funny, you know? In that deadpan but intensely accurate way. And when my legs accidentally brush hers at night, her skin is just so soft, Wynonna, you wouldn’t believe it! I think her entire body has a certain appeal to it, something fierce yet soft at the same time.” Noticing Wynonna’s curious look, she defended herself, “It’s not like I was creepily staring or anything! It’s just that you see more of somebody when you share a room with them.” 

“Huh,” came an eloquent response from her sister. “You know that you’re beautiful too?”

“Oh, no, I know. I mean, I’m not jealous of her body. I would never want to be that tall, but it still somehow fits Nicole.”

“Aaaaallllll riiight,” Wynonna provided a drawn-out reaction, seemingly even more confused now. This conversation was not helping Waverly with her jumbled feelings in the slightest. “So, you just want her to _like_ you?” Wynonna sounded incredulous.

“I guess I do? And she’s so confident in what she wants, that maybe I should just respect that she doesn’t want to be friends with me.”

“I uhm…” Wynonna was never good with heart-to-heart, but Waverly saw that she was trying her best. “I’ve never had any close female friends, so I’m not going to pretend to understand where you’re coming from. A word to the wise though – don’t chase a mouse that doesn’t want to be caught.” She nodded her head seriously as if she had just come up with a piece of wisdom rivaling that of Kant’s or Rousseau’s.

“What does that even mean, Wynonna?!” Waverly couldn’t conceal her exasperation any longer. What kind of a mouse _wanted_ to be caught? And what did mice have to do with Nicole, anyway?

Sighing deeply, Wynonna rubbed her forehead. “All I’m saying is that you should relax a little. People who don’t want to be in your life are probably not worth the effort.” 

Waverly nodded reflexively but burst into giggles immediately afterward. “Why do I even listen to your advice? Everybody hates you!” 

“I’m well aware,” her sister stuck her tongue out playfully. 

Drying the tears from the corner of her eyes from laughter, Waverly got up to her feet. “I’m not kicking you out, but I have to leave soon. I’m paying a call to Major André at noon. Did you know that he and his staff moved into the abandoned Beekmans’ house?”

“Major André, huh?” Wynonna wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, but whatever it was she was insinuating was lost on Waverly. Noticing her sister’s confusion, Wynonna waved her hand dismissively. “God, you’re useless. He’s a nice fellow. A bit too… How do I put this? A bit too _British_ for my taste, but still,” she shrugged, feigning indifference, and continued sipping on her tea. 

“Oh, you’re referring to my categorical dislike for the Brits,” Waverly thought she understood Wynonna’s teasing, even if her sister shook her head as if saying that was not what she meant. Waverly continued nonetheless, “Well, we all warmed up to William, and Major André makes for a good company. He’s let me borrow the books from Mr. Beekman’s library, and we spend time discussing the prose as well as the philosophical ideas within. I think he’s quite bored, to tell you the truth, and he offered to teach me to play the piano. He’s really not a bad man, even if he was born on the wrong side of the ocean.” 

“No, you dunce. Mama mentioned you’ve been spending a lot of time with the handsome Major lately. Don’t you think he fancies you?” Wynonna laid it all out on the table for Waverly to pick up. 

What a preposterous idea that was! Waverly frowned. “Major André?” she asked. “Major John André?” she clarified because it seemed impossible they were speaking about the same person. When Wynonna nodded her head, Waverly’s frown deepened. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. We’re just friends.” 

And with that, Waverly started to get ready, but the seed was already planted in her mind.

~

Reclining on a settee with a copy of Voltaire’s _Candide_, legs folded underneath herself, Waverly focused her attention on the man across the room. It was a sunny winter day, and they’d both decided to spend it in Mr. Beekman’s old study, where a large, floor-to-ceiling window offered a picturesque view of the backyard. Major André had announced it a perfect opportunity for a new painting. 

Somewhat of a dandy, John André was dressed in a white shirt, ruffled at the wrists and breast, formfitting green breeches, and white stockings. He’d foregone a waistcoat and his fashionable wig – a testament of how comfortable he was in Waverly’s presence. Scrutinizing his appearance after her sister’s offhanded comments, Waverly had to admit that he was a charismatic and handsome man, whose general knowledge and interest in arts she truly admired. She just wasn’t sure that his feelings for her extended much beyond cordial friendship. Damn Wynonna shoveling ideas into her head! 

“What do you think, dear Ms. Earp?” he asked suddenly, turning toward her. His charming smile suggested he noticed her staring, and Waverly blushed at being caught, diverting her eyes to the book in her lap.

“Oh, uhm. I don’t think I can agree with Voltaire’s pessimistic outlook on life – after all, if the world is as bleak as he implies, then what really is the point of it all? What’s the point of fighting and trying to improve ourselves and hoping for a better future?”

His smile was blinding now. “I’d like to hear more, but I’m afraid I was asking about my painting.” He glanced quickly from Waverly to the canvas placed on an easel by the window and then back to her. 

“Oh… of… of course.” Waverly faltered, flushing with embarrassment. She forced her eyes away from her lap and took a good look at the painting; it was a winter scene of an uncanny likeness to the view outside, yet the Major had also decided to paint an evergreen where there was none. “It’s gorgeous. I really like the color palette you chose to use – that green spruce in the distance looks like a symbol of hope in the black-and-white wasteland.” 

“Huh… You think so?” He pulled his brows and scratched his chin in thought.

“Orrrr not? I mean, it can totally symbolize something else… It doesn’t even have to symbolize anything, really, right? It could just be a tree. I thought it was curious that you placed it where there is no tree outside that we can see, and so I figured it must have meant something. But, obviously…” she rambled on, completely thrown off the loop. 

“I was simply joking, Ms. Earp,” Major André’s countenance stretched into a kind smile. “I think your observation is spot on. Once I started painting, the backyard – though beautiful – had seemed to be in need of something else, something more. This winter, much like this war, has lasted far too long.”

Waverly exhaled with relief. She smiled back at the Major and focused on forgetting Wynonna’s suggestion that he might fancy her. This was the closest either one of them has ever gotten to mentioning the war that raged around them, although Waverly had sensed that John André was ready for it to end.

~ 

Sat in front of a vanity, Waverly brushed her hair in preparation for bedtime. That old piece of furniture was her favorite in the entire house – sitting in front of the mirror every evening made her feel special and beautiful. It was also mama’s most prized possession as the only furnishing she brought with her from Ireland. Every now and then Waverly still caught mama running a finger over its frame with affection.

Letting her mind wander, Waverly watched Nicole get through her evening routine in the reflection of the vanity mirror. The woman wore breeches or leggings with stockings around the house, an action which Waverly had found both surprising and unbecoming at first. As time passed, however, she hardly minded any longer, and she had to admit that the pants fitted Nicole exquisitely, accentuating her long legs.

Unwittingly, but oh so inevitably, Waverly began to compare Nicole with Major André. They were similar in age and stature, yet Nicole was soft where he was sharp, and John André was polished where she was rough. His fashionable style, polyglot abilities, and a broad interest in arts and literature stood in stark contrast to Nicole’s ingenuous and kind worldview, and her humble and unpretentious nature. Be that as it may, for all of his compelling qualities, the Major was missing something… something Waverly couldn’t put her finger on, but what Nicole had in abundance.

As was her custom, Nicole got into bed as soon as she changed into her sleeping shift, murmuring a quiet, “goodnight,” in Waverly’s general direction, not once making eye contact. Waverly exhaled a soundless sigh and ran the brush in three more decisive strokes through her hair before getting up. Her recent conversation with Wynonna rattled in her head, as she climbed into bed, pulled a quilt over her body, and blew out the candle.

The darkness that enveloped them was absolute. On moonless nights like that the entire world seemed to be wiped out from existence, which always terrified Waverly a little. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to visualize the furniture in her room, the layout of the house downstairs, their backyard, the city streets. In the darkness, none of it seemed to exist; none of it, except for this bed and Nicole’s rhythmic breathing next to her.

“Nicole?” Waverly whispered into the night. The woman was lying on her side, facing away from Waverly, but she was certain that Nicole was awake from the absence of heavy breathing, often bordering on snoring, that was so very specific to her and somewhat endearing.

“Yes, Waverly?” came Nicole’s tired voice. 

Waverly berated herself for speaking up – after all, she knew how exhausted Nicole must have been after riding three hours from White Plains. But the darkness was a bit too lonely, too deafening tonight, and so she marched on. “Uhm, you know Major André quite well, right? Do you… Do you think that he fancies me?”

Based on the heavy silence alone, Waverly would have guessed that Nicole had fallen asleep sometime between her asking the question and this very moment. She knew that it wasn’t the case, though, because of the lack of the <strike>adorable</strike> little snores. Waverly also knew how Nicole’s body felt next to her when she was sleeping, and this tightly wound, tense form was not it. 

After a long, still minute, Waverly whispered into the darkness, “Nicole?”

The woman next to her sighed heavily as if she just released a lung-full of air she’d been holding since Waverly first spoke, and turned around clumsily to face her. “The Major helped me settle in at first, but I don’t know him all that well. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason, really. It’s just that… Wynonna mentioned something about him fancying me, and I can’t get that silly notion out of my head.”

If Waverly thought that bringing up matters of the heart with Nicole would finally bridge the gap between them – wasn’t that what friends did, after all? – she was terribly mistaken. Nicole didn’t seem too keen on keeping the conversation alive, as she let it trail off into a prolonged and awkward pause. When she did speak up again, it sounded almost pained.

“Well, do _you_ like him?”

What a curious thing to ask! Waverly hadn’t really examined her feelings for the man since they were of little consequence, weren’t they? Those Canadians sure had an interesting take on romantic relationships!

“Oh, uhm… I don’t really know, but it’s not like it matters.”

“What do you mean?” At least Nicole sounded more interested in the conversation now. She shifted on the bed, finding a more comfortable position by placing a hand underneath the pillow. “Don’t you believe that you deserve to spend your life with someone who you fancy as much as they fancy you?” she asked incredulously.

How did she manage to turn this conversation into realms Waverly hadn’t thought about and wasn’t too eager to consider at this very moment? This was supposed to have been a silly prattle between two friends, not some deep reflection on the fundamental purport of marriage. 

Not sure how to respond to that question, but also not wanting to let go of Nicole’s attention, Waverly asked instead, “Did you have someone that you fancied in Quebec City?” She didn’t even notice that she used a gender-neutral structure when referring to a hypothetical _someone_ in Nicole’s life.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you…”

“Oh, no. Sorry. I heard you the first time. It was just such a sudden non-sequitur… Are you trying to deflect my question?” her voice was lighter now, almost teasing. It made Waverly feel giddy.

Placing her right hand on her own sternum, Waverly tapped her fingers without a rhythm. “I’m not deflecting, but it seems like you might be,” she giggled. “I haven’t really thought about my feelings for Major André, that’s all. And I… uhm… I’m worried that I don’t know enough about these matters, you know? I don’t have enough experience to know what I like. But I know that I’m old enough that hadn’t it been for this war, my parents would have found a suitor for me already.”

Nicole hummed in a vague affirmation but fell quiet again immediately after. Waverly swore it was like pulling teeth. Worse, actually, because unlike this conversation, when you had your teeth pulled you at least knew what to expect, and the results were satisfying and relieving. 

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” Waverly asked quietly after a couple of minutes of silence.

Nicole responded with a low, “Uh-huh,” which instantly had Waverly wonder who it might have been. Seeing how unforthcoming Nicole had been all evening, Waverly decided not to push the subject. 

“I’ve only kissed one boy once…. One man, I mean… His name was James, and he was our neighbor’s son.” Rolling over to face Nicole more fully, Waverly continued quietly as if sharing a secret, “We were friends growing up, and when he signed up for the Army two years ago, he’d asked to kiss me. _For good luck_, he’d said. I didn’t really know what I was doing, and it wasn’t all that great, but he smiled so sweetly at me afterward that I must have done something right.” She chuckled. 

“Did it bring him luck?” Nicole asked in a low, serious voice, quite the opposite to the trivial tone Waverly was trying for.

“No, I don’t think so.” Waverly attempted to shrug, which turned out more difficult lying down than she’d anticipated. “Our neighbor – Mr. Hardy – says he hasn’t received a letter from James in over a year.”

“Well, maybe you need more practice,” Nicole said with so much self-confidence it nearly bordered on conceit. _Nearly_. 

Quite incomprehensively, Waverly’s heart skipped a beat, and her hands sweated profusely. She wished she could see Nicole’s face more clearly in this very moment, instead of the indistinct shape obscured by the shadows of the night. “I don’t have anyone to practice with…” she murmured. “Unless you…?” Waverly let it hang between the two of them, ready to take it back and laugh it to scorn at the first indication of Nicole’s discomfort. She wasn’t even sure where the idea came from; she’d never thought about kissing anyone – most definitely _not_ Nicole. She held her breath and bit her bottom lip in anticipation – for what? She wasn’t sure. Trying to prevent the impending anxiety, Waverly justified her words to herself by claiming that this was precisely what girl-friends were for. She still remembered Sarah and Martha practicing kissing behind the school-house – sure, they had been barely fourteen at the time, but their age seemed to have little influence on Waverly’s reasoning.

Waverly couldn’t see Nicole, but after a short pause, she felt her lean forward, felt a warm whisper of breath caressing her cheek, as if she was a willing participant yet giving Waverly the space to decide for herself. Unable to form a single thought, as though there was no reasoning left to consider, Waverly surged forward, connecting their lips. 

Miscalculating their positions in the darkness, Waverly’s lips met Nicole’s clumsily, landing a bit too far to the right. That kiss wasn’t any better than her first one, just two people merging at the mouths. If anything, it was even more awkward. Waverly started wondering if there was something wrong with her, as she’s heard girls and women alike wax lyrical about the magic of kissing her entire life, about how just one kiss had the power to lit your whole body aflame. Ready to pull away and blame herself for this disappointment, she wondered if… 

But when Nicole repositioned herself and moved her mouth over Waverly’s more fully, gently enveloping her lower lip, Waverly forgot all about her concerns. When Nicole opened her mouth, Waverly followed the example and licked into Nicole, surprising them both with her boldness and ingenuity. The rumbling sigh that escaped Nicole’s chest was the most sinful and exhilarating sound Waverly’s ever heard, and it emboldened her to continue with her explorations. The outside world ceased to exist at that moment, and for the first time ever, safe in Nicole’s gentle hands, Waverly wasn’t afraid of the darkness.

~XXX~

Against all better judgment, Nicole had a perfectly good excuse for allowing Waverly to kiss her a week ago. She had been dirt tired from riding all day after collecting intelligence at the Continental Army camp, and Waverly’s melodic whispers lured her in like a siren’s call. All of it had seemed like a dream – a dream like numerous others she’d already had – and she allowed herself that one tiny moment of indulgence, knowing full well that it couldn’t last.

When nothing had changed in Waverly’s attitude toward her the following morning, Nicole had almost been convinced she actually _had_ dreamed the whole thing. Waverly had made her breakfast – soft-boiled eggs, like she preferred – and had shared it with her and Michelle without any undue awkwardness or hostility. The only reason Nicole held onto the belief that they really had shared a heated kiss the previous night was that Waverly’s brazen and exploratory behavior went far beyond Nicole’s wildest dreams.

As the entire day passed without any recognition from Waverly, Nicole had resigned to believing that they were both on the same page in leaving that kiss an unspoken accident and something that wouldn’t happen again. Oh boy, but was she mistaken! As they’d climbed into bed that evening following their respective routines, and as the darkness enveloped them, Waverly had asked softly, nervously, almost reverently, if they could _practice_ again. Even stumbling over her words and rambling, there had been something so endearingly sweet, innocent, and genuine about Waverly at that moment, that Nicole had forgotten all reason yet again and had connected their lips, effectively silencing the other woman. She’d allowed herself to melt under Waverly’s soft caresses, convinced she would never receive that honor again.

Yet when Waverly had whispered a soft, “Nicole…,” against the back of her neck the following evening, and she’d obediently rolled over to commit her lips to this beautiful woman the third night in the row without much convincing or explanation, Nicole hadn’t been so sure where this dalliance was headed anymore.

It was a full week later, and her confusion was not any closer to dissipating.

They were sharing breakfast, as was their custom, when Michelle announced she’d be gone all day, helping at the mill. “I know I promised to help with churning cream for butter, Waverly, but I’m afraid this can’t wait. Will you be all right on your own?” 

“I guess I have to be,” Waverly responded dejectedly yet with an unusual fire, rearranging the food on her plate with a fork.

Considering Waverly for a long while, Michelle appeared a second away from verbally punishing her daughter for the insolence. After a tense moment, she sighed instead and rubbed her forehead. “Listen, Waverly. I know you are still a little upset with not being allowed to help with…” she cleared her throat, “to help at the mill, but this is important. All right? I need you to start acting like an adult, and that may include churning the cream on your own sometimes.”

“Yes, mama.” Waverly looked down at her plate gloomily. Nicole didn’t know that helping at the mill was so important to the girl. 

“Or better yet – be resourceful! Have Nicole help you,” Michelle announced, getting up to her feet and collecting the dirty dishes off the table.

Waverly’s surprised eyes turned to Nicole as if she’d just discovered her presence at the kitchen table. God, her eyes were beautiful and so expressive in the daylight; Nicole would have given anything to be able to gaze into them when they kissed… Trying to banish the inappropriate thoughts and to ease the rising tension, Nicole smiled sweetly at Waverly.

“Would you…? I mean, that is, if you don’t have any other obligations today, I could really use a hand…” Waverly asked just as a handsome blush spread across her cheekbones. 

If Nicole had any plans for the day, it had already been well established within the narrative that she couldn’t say no to Waverly and her shy smile. “Of course! I’d be happy to help!”

“You’d do that for me?” Waverly seemed taken aback by Nicole’s swift acquiescence as if it was entirely unexpected. She stared down at her plate, eyebrows pulled together in concentration, searching for something between a fried egg and hash browns. “All right,” she said, and looking up at Nicole added, “The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be done.” The small smile she sent Nicole on her way up from the kitchen table, melted her heart and intensified the stubborn fluttering in her chest.

They walked to the barn in awkward silence. Nicole desperately tried to find something to say, but no words were forthcoming. At any rate, what do you say to a woman you’ve kissed six nights in the row when neither one of you had acknowledged it in the slightest? Seeing how visibly uncomfortable Waverly was, she scolded herself for agreeing to help. It was going to be a long day. 

As soon as they entered the barn, Waverly made a beeline for large milk jugs sat in the corner. Nicole stayed back by the door, not knowing the first thing about making butter. She watched on as Waverly dragged one of the jugs toward a wooden tub and attempted to lift it. Her strength surprised Nicole, who lost the train of thought momentarily, watching the fine definition of biceps flex underneath the woman’s dress sleeves. As the entire ordeal seemed exceedingly cumbersome, Nicole snapped out of it at the first huff of irritation from Waverly. 

“Waverly, I want to help, but you have to tell me what to do.” She took a few steps toward the girl, hopelessly pointing around herself. “I don’t know how any of this is supposed to work.”

“You never churned cream before?” It seemed unthinkable to Waverly. She abandoned the jug in favor of examining Nicole with intense curiosity.

The astonished statement brought a kind smile to Nicole’s lips. “Living in a city, we bought or bartered for all the food we needed. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I wouldn’t know where to start.” 

The concept was so foreign to Waverly that she took a long minute thinking about it. “Wow. I didn’t know. All right.” She took a deep breath and mumbled something under her breath, pointing at the milk jug.

Nicole burst out laughing. “You have to speak up, Waverly. I promise I don’t mind following orders, especially not orders from beautiful women.” The last part slipped her tongue unbidden, and she blushed at her own boldness.

The flirtatious comment either slipped Waverly’s notice or else she chose to ignore it. Playing with the ruffles of her frilled cap, she explained quietly, “No one ever listens to what I have to say.” She looked between the milk jug and Nicole, and Nicole saw the exact moment when something clicked into place, and Waverly gathered all the confidence that slept deep within her. “First, we’ll have to skim the cream from the top of the milk and pour it from each of these jugs into that wooden tub.” She bent over the jug left abandoned at her feet, which Nicole took as a sign to join in and help. 

Lifting the heavy container was much easier with two people, and they managed to empty all four jugs in no time. Leaving the cream to cool off in the tub, Waverly rambled about how keeping the milk in jugs allowed it to sour and produce the cream, and how one year Wynonna had forgotten about it and left it until the entire City of New York could smell the resulting blunder. Nicole couldn’t help but chuckle at the disgusted face that Waverly made recalling the offensive odor. Hearing the rare sound escape Nicole’s lips, Waverly looked at her with such fondness, nearly bordering on affection, that had Nicole swallowing heavily.

Unperturbed by the palpable charge in the air, Waverly smiled softly at Nicole and continued directing the workflow, alas in a bit quieter, a bit more intimate tone, “Help me pour the cream from the tub into that churn, and I’ll show you what to do with the plunger.”

The task completed, Waverly wiped the sweat off her forehead and sat down on a stool positioned behind the churning barrel. Forcing the plunger through a hole in the wooden lid, she began the churning process by working the stick up and down while adding a bit of a swirling motion to it on each pass. Her entire upper body swayed with the task. Up and down, up and down… Her strong legs braced against the floor for extra support. Up and down, up and down… The muscles of her arms tautened and swelled with each movement. Up and down, up and down… God help Nicole if it wasn’t the most unexpectedly sensual and titillating sight of her life. She could have sworn that the temperature in the barn rose by several degrees, and she briefly considered running back to the house for a glass of cool water. Or perhaps something stronger.

“…ceful. So just remember these few points,” Waverly finished explaining the proper technique for churning cream, of which Nicole caught precisely nothing, too preoccupied with staring. “Here, take the plunger. It’s better to switch every ten minutes or so, lest your arms start cramping.” She vacated the stool, expecting Nicole to take over.

It couldn’t be that hard, could it? Watching Waverly for the past few minutes, the task seemed effortless and mindless, and so Nicole walked to the stool trying to exude confidence and prevent Waverly from noticing that she, in fact, had not paid any attention. As she attempted to mimic Waverly’s motions, it became painfully obvious how arduous it really was. Her hands slipped down the plunger, the resistance being much greater than Nicole had anticipated.

“See, that’s exactly what I meant by saying that the fat clumps were already forming,” Waverly said, and even though Nicole couldn’t see her behind her back, she could tell that the girl was smiling. “Just try to keep your motion more fluid and get all the way to the bottom of the barrel, or we’ll get a thick layer of butter on top, plugging access to everything else.”

Nicole nodded and continued the work, but even she could tell that her movements were choppy. She would definitely have to start appreciating butter more each time she spread some on bread. Not able to understand what she was doing wrong, admittedly mostly because she hadn’t listened to Waverly when she explained everything, Nicole quickly became frustrated. Judging by the little huffs of disappointment reaching her ears, Waverly felt similarly.

“Maybe you could demonstrate it again, eh? It looked much easier when you did it.” Nicole was ready to get up and let Waverly take over, silently swearing to pay attention this time, and not get derailed by inappropriate thoughts of Waverly’s swaying body, oscillating and fluid, plunging deep… _Focus, Nicole!_

“No, no. Stay,” Waverly whispered behind her, softly placing a hand on her shoulder, keeping her in place. “Try not to think too much about it – just let it carry you like the waves on the East River.” Waverly must have inclined forward, as her warm murmurs tickled Nicole’s ear, causing the baby hair on her neck to stand up. Closing her eyes, Nicole tried to focus on Waverly. “That’s it,” the girl encouraged, enveloping her with the strong arms and aiding with the churning movement. When her chin rested on Nicole’s shoulder, Nicole nuzzled into her neck instinctively, lost in the sensation of Waverly’s body nestled snuggly against her back.

“Uhm,” Waverly took a step back.

Worried she crossed an unspoken line, Nicole opened her eyes, turned on the stool, and examined the girl carefully, ready to apologize. The sight that welcomed her, however, warmed her heart; even with diverted eyes and blushing cheeks, Waverly did not appear uncomfortable.

“I think it’s time to drain the buttermilk.” She met Nicole’s eyes with a bashful smile. 

As they lifted the churning barrel, Nicole could have sworn that Waverly placed her hand adjacent to Nicole’s on purpose, seeking more contact. As she handed her a lump of butter and encircled Nicole’s palms with her own, Nicole was nearly certain the woman knew exactly what she was doing to Nicole. 

“We have to work the remaining buttermilk out. Like this,” Waverly demonstrated by kneading the greasy lump in Nicole’s hand, simultaneously squeezing Nicole’s heart. Their hands glided easily through the butter, adding to the overall sensory overload. 

“You’re good with your hands,” Waverly stated, spellbound, and gazed into Nicole’s eyes. She quickly diverted her eyes again, blushing and abashed. 

“Maybe we should try the butter?” Nicole asked, attempting to change the subject and diffuse the tension.

“Sure,” Waverly responded by collecting a dollop of the creamy mass on her index finger. Something mischievous crossed her eyes, as she intoned coquettishly, bringing the finger closer to Nicole’s mouth. “Would you like a taste?”

Nicole’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest, and she almost swallowed her own tongue. She was vaguely aware she was staring at Waverly with large unblinking eyes, and she prayed that the saliva she felt collecting in her mouth didn’t start dribbling out. God, this woman would be the death of her. 

Before she could do something stupid and irrevocable, like actually take Waverly’s finger into her mouth, the girl giggled and dabbed the butter on Nicole’s nose.

It took Nicole no longer than a few seconds to retaliate, or at least, endeavor to. “Oh, it’s on!” She chased Waverly around the barn, trying to smudge her with some of the butter still in her hand, to the sound of delighted squeals from the girl.

When Waverly tried to rapidly change direction behind one of the wooden columns, she slipped on loose hay covering the floor. Nicole was right behind her. “I’ve got you,” she intended for the statement to be playful, yet whispered and breathy, it sounded much deeper. It sounded like a promise. She held Waverly in her arms and forgot all about her mission of spoiling her beautiful features with the greasy butter.

Chest rising rapidly with the remnants of laughter and chase, Waverly beamed up at Nicole, radiant and carefree. “Hi there, butter-nose,” she breathed out, tapping Nicole on the nose. The tone of her voice lost the previous playfulness, replaced instead with adoration and softness.

Nicole watched on helplessly as Waverly maneuvered a few loose red hairs that escaped her cap behind her ear. Acutely aware of the weight of her palms resting on Waverly’s waist, Nicole grabbed on tighter, feeling something shift between them – something heavy and unspeakably tender. 

“Your eyes are breathtaking in the daylight…” Waverly whispered, yet she didn’t blush this time, didn’t remove her hand now cradling Nicole’s cheek. “They scare me, like the deepest darkness of a moonless night…” 

“I scare you?” Nicole was equally surprised and flattered. 

“Yes… Yes, you do…” But even swallowing rapidly, Waverly didn’t appear frightened.

Before Nicole’s brain could catch up with the turn of events, her body instinctively knew what was coming, as Waverly moved her right hand behind Nicole’s neck to pull her down for a searing kiss. This time, they gazed into each other’s eyes until their lips met. This time, Nicole witnessed a jumble of joy, nerves, and certainty cross Waverly’s features. This time, it didn’t feel like a dirty secret, only to be shared in the shadows of the night but never to be spoken of in the daylight. 

They continued to alternate between kissing, laughing, churning milk, and talking about inconsequential subjects well into the evening.

~

It was the fourth time Nicole infiltrated the rebels’ camp at White Plains, disguised as Mrs. Barnes, a peddler. Her travel arrangements had been carefully prepared by Major André each time so that the British sentries stationed outside of New York City were informed of her assignment and allowed her passage.

Even though she had been concerned about infiltrating the American camp, it was exceptionally effortless; Nicole was surprised to learn that women constituted a large portion of the camp population, and were responsible for nursing the wounded, laundering, sewing, tending cattle, and so on. At times it seemed that women were in fact in charge of just about everything around the camp but cooking. 

On her first visit, Nicole had learned how poorly the food rations were distributed among the soldiers, and it provided her with the perfect cover. She now carried a bag of bread and cured pork, which allowed her to speak with troops of various ranks without suspicions. Dressed in an old-fashioned gray dress and a simple head cap, Nicole felt the part of a 40-year-old American patriot woman, as she trudged slowly through a muddy road connecting hundreds of linen tents.

“Do you sell any food, ma’am?” came an inquiry from a youngster sat against a simple wedge tent pole.

“I do,” Nicole responded, walking up to the soldier with a kind, yet maternal, smile on her face. “What’s your name, son?” After several months of living at the Earp household, her American accent was nearly passable.

“Joseph Plump Martin, ma’am,” the man responded, inclining his three-sided cocked hat in greeting. “They say we’re supposed to receive a pound and a half of bread, a pound of beef, and a gill of whiskey each day, but I haven’t seen as much as a breadcrumb in days.”

“I have bread and cured pork with me today – 5 cents for both.”

Joseph scratched his neck hesitantly. “I have no money, but I haven’t eaten in three days, so perhaps you’d consider a payment in these fine military buttons?” he pointed at his uniform jacket hanging on a branch a few steps outside of the tent. “Yesterday, being pinched with hunger, I strolled to a place, where sometime before some cattle had been slaughtered; there I had the good luck (or rather bad luck, as it turned out in the end) to find an ox’s milt, which had escaped the hogs and dogs. With this prize, I steered off to my tent, threw it upon the fire and broiled it, and then sat down to eat it, without either bread or salt. I had not had it long in my stomach before it began to make strong remonstrance and to manifest a great inclination to be set at liberty again.”*

Nicole examined the man carefully; he couldn’t have been a day older than 18, most certainly much younger than her brother, Étienne. He looked thin and malnourished, with dark bags underneath his eyes accentuating his poor constitution. “Here, take this bread and save your buttons.” Handing him a loaf from her rucksack, Nicole tried to convince herself that it was not out of pity, that she merely needed to obtain information, and that one well-fed rebel soldier would ultimately not decide the outcome of this conflict.

“That’s very kind of you,” Joseph responded, and she could see him battling with pride before he extended his arm for the loaf.

“Say, I’m looking for a soldier named Chambers. He’s a relative. Do you happen to know him?”

“Mark Chambers? Oh, I’m afraid he died of pox a few weeks back. Nasty infliction – it’s been responsible for many more lives here at White Plains than the redcoats.” Joseph sent her a look of sympathy, before biting into the loaf hurriedly, and excusing himself into his wedge tent.

If she looked devastated, it was because private Chambers was a disloyal American soldier, who she had orders to contact to obtain the pertaining information about the Continental camp. With him gone, this entire operation was doomed, and Nicole panicked momentarily that it would reflect poorly on her involvement with the intelligence efforts. She was sure that this failure would be discussed primarily through the prism of her being a woman, while the extenuating circumstances would be skimmed over. Unlike the male spies, Nicole couldn’t afford any mistakes.

Breathing raggedly, she slid against the closest aspen and sat down in a damp clump of grass. Mind racing but not forming any coherent thoughts, Nicole remained propped against the tree for an indefinite amount of time, watching as the camp life went on before her. Twelve men of the 4th Regiment walked by, carrying spades over their shoulders, likely to dig holes for more outhouses. Several soldiers attempted to interrupt an unlucky private, who was counting the stockpiled munitions, by yelling random numbers out loud. Two captains were discussing something animatedly, leaving the officers’ quarters. Countless men were shoveling dirt and constructing gabions and fascines. Nicole wondered briefly what Major André would make of these activities since, even though the defensive structures saved the Americans at Bunker Hill, he still considered the earthworks to be unmilitary and cowardly.

Major André was her commanding officer, and even though Nicole hasn’t spoken to him in person since he first helped her settle in, she still didn’t want to disappoint him. He was working tirelessly in obtaining crucial intelligence, going as far as recruiting high-ranking American officers to conspire against the revolt. She hadn’t lied to Waverly when the woman first inquired about him – Nicole didn’t know Major André well, as they’d decided to limit their in-person interactions to a minimum, in order to protect her identity, and had communicated solely via encrypted messages and letters penned in invisible ink.

Nicole could admit that her first reaction to Waverly’s passive interest in the Major was jealousy, even though she had no right to be jealous at that time. He was a handsome and educated man, whose interest in beautiful women and handsome men alike was a frequent subject of gossip amongst the intelligence agents who worked for him. Nicole had no difficulty recognizing Waverly’s beauty and her sharp mind as likely objects of Major André’s affection.

Now, as a couple of weeks had passed since that fateful day in the barn, Nicole was growing confident in Waverly’s intentions toward her. Not only did they steal kisses whenever they could, but Waverly would also seek minute physical and emotional closeness with Nicole frequently and openly – these small gestures were not read as romantic by Michelle or Wynonna, yet to Nicole they weren’t any less intimate than the kisses. They hadn’t actually spoken about their feelings quite yet – the process seemed difficult enough as it was for Waverly, and Nicole was giving her the space she needed. Still, even if Waverly shared Major André’s affinity for both sexes, Nicole no longer felt threatened by Major’s potential interest in the woman. 

Looking around, mind racing with thoughts of failing the mission, disappointing the intelligence officers, and possibly being sent back to Canada (and away from Waverly so early in their budding relationship!), Nicole started counting the soldiers working on the earthworks, as a means of easing her anxiety. Before she finished counting, she had already guessed there were about 70 men there, as they all belonged to the 1st Regiment.

A sudden thought crossed Nicole’s mind – _What do you need Chambers for?_ She already had the information he would have likely provided her with – she knew the number of soldiers stationed here, could estimate the number of guns, cannons, and other supplies, and was familiar with the layout of the camp, including the locations of munitions stockpiles and officers’ quarters. The experience she gained scouting for General Nedley in Quebec City trained her well for tallying the enemy units and their positions to the extent that it came to her naturally, mechanically.

Nicole’s lips stretched in a sly smile. She would make a note of all the information she had gathered about this camp, however insignificant it might appear, and would share it with Major André first thing tomorrow morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Continental Army was notoriously bad at supplying the soldiers with basic provisions. The sentence marked by an asterisk (*) is a quote by an American soldier, Joseph Plump Martin.
> 
> Nicole’s actions in this chapter were based on Ann Bates, who was a loyalist spy from Philadelphia. She was famous for her awareness, intelligence, and her ability to remain calm under pressure. Her alias was “Mrs. Barnes.” She took part in various clandestine operations against the American forces but is most well-known for her missions completed at Washington’s base camp in White Plain, NY. Ann pretended to be a peddler, and since women were generally thought to be incapable of understanding the military strategy, she managed to infiltrate the American camps without many problems. Thanks to the very specific information she collected, the British defeated the Americans during the Battle of Rhode Island.
> 
> She relocated to England after the war and was even awarded a pension from the British government, for her services during the Revolution.  



	5. 1779. Anna Smith Strong

_ 1779. _

The day was sweltering and muggy, seemingly turning one’s skin into molten iron. Waverly lounged on a sofa in the sitting room, attempting to fan her sweaty neck and face with a letter she’d received from John André. Even though she had sat down to read it almost an hour ago, she was nowhere close to being done, as the oppressive heat squeezed all the joy out of it and made her brain boil and sizzle.

After being called upon to aid the 17,000 British troops to capture and occupy Philadelphia last year, John was finally able to send her correspondence, profusely apologizing for a prolonged silence. Throughout many a day they had shared in a common appreciation for arts and literature, they had become close friends, and Waverly worried immensely when he was deployed away from New York. Their cordial companionship was a source of jumbled confusion and bafflement for Waverly – not because of any romantic entanglements, as Waverly had confided in John her blossoming feelings for Nicole, news of which he had taken rather well and had become her closest confidante on the matter. No, Waverly was perplexed with herself for being able to befriend an _enemy_. 

Thus far, John had grumbled in his letter about Philadelphia being absolutely insipid and lackluster. Waverly suspected he was greatly exaggerating his boredom for her benefit, yet she could also easily picture John - the social butterfly - André struggling to adapt to life in a much smaller city. Going stir-crazy, he had already converted a local Philadelphian warehouse into a theater and had managed to put on thirteen different plays.

The retelling of his crazy adventures brought a smile to her face, and she wondered what else he’d gotten himself into in the name of entertainment and amusement. Instead of continuing with the letter, Waverly felt a droplet of sweat travel down her calf. It was difficult to focus in those conditions, especially when her mind took her on a ride through memories of a sweaty Nicole suffering for the first time through the unbearable heat of New York City in August. That train of thought inevitably took a detour to this year’s summer, when Nicole – wised up after the experiences of last year – decided to sleep in nothing more than short breeches, reaching barely beyond her knees, and a loose shirt, both of which she’d appropriated from her brother, Étienne. Waverly couldn’t complain about that development, even if the images of a sweaty, barely covered Nicole now invaded her brain, preventing any other thoughts from taking root.

Another droplet of sweat traveled down her body, originating somewhere on her neck and meandering down her chest. Distracted, Waverly watched it disappear between her breasts, underneath the undone drawstrings of her shift, when the front door opened with a bang. 

Wynonna barged into the sitting room, clutching a piece of paper in her hand, mama hot on her heels.

“Read it and burn it,” mama murmured.

“What do you think I was about to do with?” Wynonna responded angrily, already lighting a candle.

There was an unmistakable air of haste and tension between the two women. A year or two ago, Waverly would have itched to learn what the commotion was all about, to try and embed herself in the clandestine operations her sister and mother were a part of. As it was today, the drawn-out war with no end in sight made her apathetic to the cause. And to tell the truth, her relationship with Nicole growing into something tender, something unspeakably monumental over the past several months, stole Waverly’s attention. This war could last for years, decades even with how things were progressing, and Waverly chose to be present in the moment instead, cherishing every minute she got to spend with Nicole. She fanned herself and returned her eyes to the letter, disinterested in the two women, and being ignored by them in return.

“There it is,” Wynonna whispered, exposing the paper to the candle flame and mouthing the message revealed by the heat.

Waverly rolled her eyes. Still attempting to focus on the letter in her lap, she asked incredulously, more to herself than to Wynonna, “You’re still using the old lemon juice and heat method for concealing your messages? If you get caught, the Brits will immediately know how to read it.” 

Wynonna startled as if she was genuinely unaware of her presence. Mama turned to her with eyes large as saucers, before they narrowed to two suspicious slits, “How do you mean? And tell me right now how you would know anything about the British counter-intelligence measures, young lady!” 

Not interested in the dramatics, Waverly shrugged. “John used to receive these letters in my presence constantly. At least his spies were smarter about it, writing a boring letter in permanent ink and concealing a message in invisible ink between the lines. That blank piece of paper,” she nodded her head toward Wynonna’s hands, “looks awfully suspicious.”

“Well, what else are we supposed to do, huh? It must be so easy to criticize from that comfy position on the sofa!” Wynonna exploded.

Waverly understood well how her sister disliked being challenged, and she subconsciously knew she was also right about Waverly’s lack of involvement, yet the off-handed comment still stung. She looked at Wynonna for long enough to nearly make her squirm and huffed out an irritated puff of air. All she really wanted to accomplish today was to get through this letter and then steal some kisses with Nicole behind the barn in the evening.

“Have you thought about using a different invisible ink? One that the Brits wouldn’t know how to reveal?” Removing sweat droplets from her temple she was certain were about to drip down her face, Waverly continued, unperturbed by mama’s confused expression and Wynonna’s half-opened mouth, “You could also encrypt the messages to make it harder to decipher, even if they manage to read them.”

A heavy silence descended upon them. Waverly was about to return to the unfinished letter, when mama asked, “How long have you sat on those ideas for?”

She looked at the woman trying to interpret her expression. When mama wanted to, no emotion would show on her face, and Waverly couldn’t decide if she was in trouble or if she was being commended. She had no skin in this game, and so she just shrugged, “I spent a lot of time around John before he left for Philadelphia. I played with some common kitchen substances last year, curious about his concealed messages. Vinegar was the most promising as invisible ink, and I managed to develop it with red cabbage water. I named it _sympathetic stain_.” She smiled softly, remembering how much fun she had working on that little project no one else would ever know about – or at least that was what she had thought at the time. 

An entire silent conversation seemed to have passed between Wynonna and mama, before mama addressed Waverly again, “We are looking for someone to help us pass messages to one of our agents. I think it may be time to involve you in the inner circle of the Culper Ring, dear child.”

Wynonna shook her head, adamantly disagreeing, yet having no power to overturn mama’s authority. “You have some guts in your brains, babygirl.” 

Not believing her ears, Waverly looked astonished at her mother. Just when she lost any desire to be included in their activities…

“I have to run and pass the message we just read to Woodhull. Wynonna, please fill Waverly in with the details of the operation and learn what you can about her invisible ink…,” she glanced at her younger daughter and smiled, “about her _sympathetic stain_ idea.”

Before Waverly could blink, the woman was gone. She looked to her sister, who paced the length of the sitting room, clearly displeased with the sudden turn of events. Trying to comfort her and justify mama’s decision, Waverly whispered, “You know, maybe I could have helped. Like really helped. Out there with you guys as a team.” 

“That’s not our deal, Waves,” Wynonna barked back. They haven’t had this particular argument in nearly a year now, but Waverly was well aware of her sister’s stance, especially with their father lost at war. Wynonna stopped pacing and rubbed her temples, visibly deflating. “Some team,” she huffed. “I’m not even sure we’re the good guys.” 

Blinking in surprise, Waverly responded with as much conviction as only a twenty-two-year-old can muster, “Well, the good guys seem to be in short supply these days. Believe me – you are definitely one of them.” She wasn’t sure what her sister must have gone through in the past couple of years, but she was sure as hell that they were on the right side of this conflict. 

Uncomfortable, Wynonna waved her off, and quickly, but not subtly, changed the subject, “So the mission mama was referring to is quite simple, really.” She sat down on the sofa next to Waverly, stealing the last vestige of fresh air around her. “Twice a month, under pretenses of fishing, Caleb Brewster takes a whaleboat through the Long Island Sound. Our… _your_ mission will be to let him know which one of the six coves in Setauket harbor our dispatchers will meet him at. They will pass him notes about the British troops’ and ships’ movement that we collect throughout the city, which he will then take to Washington’s headquarters in Newburgh.” 

“Where will he dock? And won’t it be suspicious if he docks in the same spot without anything to trade, right under the nose of the Brits?” If Waverly was skeptical, it was all due to how poorly thought-out this plan sounded.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know. Bring him a basket of apples to trade or something.”

“Apples? Really Wynonna? How you have managed not to get caught yet is beyond me!” Waverly would have chuckled in exasperation if they weren’t discussing activities punishable by death. “What if I develop a signal of some sort that he’d be able to spot from his boat without a need to dock and meet with me? Like…” she scratched her head - figuratively speaking, as it was too muggy to even lift an arm. 

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck two o’clock, and Wynonna got to her feet in a rush of loose locks. “Keep these cogs turning. I have to run, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning to pick your brain on that sympathetic stain idea. Oh, and Waves?” she stopped by the door. “Not a word about any of this to anyone. I’m quite serious about that – not even Nicole.” Wagging her finger in a silent threat or reprimand, Wynonna walked backward until she disappeared outside. 

Waverly’s eyes remained glued to the spot where Wynonna last stood. It felt like her entire body froze as if her brain ceased all motor functions to allow for more processing power to deal with the latest conundrum. How would she ever hide something this big from Nicole?

~

“Waverly, a word?”

Waverly nearly jumped from her seated position at the kitchen table, scraping the chair against the wooden floor in haste to create space between herself and Nicole. They were just finishing breakfast together, so lost in each other, Waverly hadn’t even heard the front door opening.

“Alone?” Wynonna added, impatient and impertinent, looking pointedly at Nicole. 

Glancing quickly between the women, she spotted a new sort of fire in Nicole’s deep brown eyes, something defiant and challenging. She bit her lower lip, not sure how to proceed, but Nicole backed down almost instantaneously, in a small act of self-sacrifice, “I’ll leave you to it.” 

Would there ever be a time she couldn’t rely on Nicole to do what’s right? It had barely been a few weeks since Waverly became involved with the Culper Ring, and keeping it a secret from Nicole was eating her from the inside. She knew she should tell Nicole, should come clean, yet Waverly was afraid to break Wynonna’s _trust,_ especially so early after she’d been finally awarded some. She wasn’t particularly worried about Nicole’s reaction – after all, the woman had used to travel to the American army camps, supporting the soldiers with food and ware; she also never even flinched when one of the Earp women let something patriotic slip at the house.

“Wynonna,” Nicole greeted with a short nod, passing by her sister. 

“Copper Top,” was all that Wynonna offered back. 

Waverly wasn’t sure why the two were so reticent around each other, and she swore to fix that. Soon. Nicole greeting someone in the hallway alerted her to the presence of another person in their home. She quickly dusted her petticoat from any residual bread crumbs and turned her attention back to Wynonna. 

“Waves, I want you to meet my man, Dolls. Dolls, this is my sister Waverly,” Wynonna introduced a stranger now stood in her kitchen.

“Your man?” Waverly sputtered. This was an unexpected turn of events, and Waverly was shocked that her sister would ever stoop this low.

“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty head about it. Dolls here will be our dispatcher out in Setauket. It is his location you’ll be communicating to Brewster, so I figured it’d be good for the two of you to meet,” Wynonna dismissed her concerns with a wave of a hand.

How did her sister become so callous? Waverly took a minute to study Wynonna, speechless. Who was this woman, stood so calmly in her kitchen, claiming ownership over another person’s life?

In the ensuing silence, Wynonna looked between her sister and the man. “Ugh, Waves? You all right in there?” She chuckled awkwardly.

“No. No, I’m not all right.” She knew she wasn’t the only person who naively believed that the Declaration of Independence truly included _all the people_ of the young, aspiring nation, and she always thought her sister was of the same mind. How would she even begin to challenge Wynonna? Spine ramrod straight, Waverly decided to go with something vague and formal, yet to the point, “It always appeared a most iniquitous scheme to me to fight ourselves for what we are robbing and plundering from those who have as good a right to freedom as we have.”*

“What the hell are you talking about, babygirl?” brows pulled together, Wynonna appeared utterly confused.

Apparently, Waverly’s subtle approach was useless. She sighed deeply, trying to vocalize her thoughts in a simpler fashion when Dolls took a step forward. 

“It would appear your sister thinks that you purchased me, Wynonna, and she’s trying to chastise you for such a deed.” Turning to Waverly, he added, “Your concern is noted, Ms. Earp, but I assure you that I am a free man, and my involvement in this mission is entirely voluntary.” He had a calm and collected way of speaking, and there was something nearly melodic in the otherwise monotone pitch of his voice.

“Ha!” Wynonna chortled. “Who’s a racist asshole now?”

“My apologies, Mr. Dolls. I haven’t ever met… I mean… Not that it matters who I have or haven’t met, I just didn’t expect… didn’t think, really…” Waverly tried – and failed miserably – to explain her prejudiced assumptions.

To his credit, Dolls didn’t seem fazed by her reaction, nor did he accept her apologies or got her off the hook, “It is not as uncommon now as you would expect. Since the Continental Army had trouble filling in the enlistment quotas, they started recruiting black Africans a few years ago in return for our freedom. The slave owners north of the Potomac gladly gave their men to the army in exchange for the enlistment bounty or to avoid being drafted themselves.” 

“Dolls here was a part of the famed Rhode Island’s Black Battalion established last year and saw enough action to last a lifetime, haven’t you Dolls?” Wynonna butted in. “Maybe if you weren’t spending your every breathing moment with Nicole and poked your head from underneath that rock every once in a while, you would have noted the national debate on including the Africans in the army.” 

Waverly blushed involuntarily. She really did get lost in Nicole; she just hadn’t realized how _deeply lost_ she was. It was curious that she felt more open sharing that part of her life with John André – a relative stranger and an enemy officer at that – than with her own blood. There was a certain harsh, unbending quality to Wynonna that made Waverly sure she could never explain to her the depth of her feelings for another woman.

Sensing the tensions rising, Dolls – clearly quite a perceptive man – stepped in again, “Wynonna mentioned you developed a system of codes to signal my location to Brewster, Ms. Earp?” 

“Please, call me Waverly,” she extended her hand in introductions and gave Dolls one of her most charming smiles, glad for a change of subject. “And yes, I have. I will use the clothesline at the Beekman’s old mansion – it’s that house on a hill you must have seen riding in – as it’s clearly visible from the river. The code will include a black petticoat for the beginning of a message and a number of handkerchiefs – one for each of the coves.”

“That is a very ingenious idea, Waverly,” Dolls gave her a small smile in return.

“It’s a brilliant idea!” Wynonna intersected. “You won’t even have to leave the neighborhood, and yet you’ll be able to help! I love it!” Even if she wasn’t living at home any longer, Wynonna remained the overprotective older sister.

~XXX~

“Let me get this straight,” Nicole whispered over her rapidly cooling breakfast. “You want me to keep an eye on your sister, who drunk-slept here on the sofa last night because the guy who she once loved…”

“Maybe loved,” Waverly corrected. 

“Maybe loved,” Nicole agreed. “The guys who she once _maybe_ loved and who was gone to war for the past five years is back now, and that somehow upset her?”

Waverly nodded. “There are some other complications, but I wasn’t able to get much out of her last night.”

“And you can’t stay with her because…?” Nicole fished, although she already knew the answer to that question. 

“I told you already, silly,” Waverly bumped her on the nose affectionately. “I have to do the laundry at the Beekmans’ old house. It’s very important, but I also don’t want to leave her like that.”

Nicole shook her head in exasperation and filled her mouth with an entire egg. It was a childish trick, but it earned her a minute before she committed to anything. 

“Pretty please,” Waverly whispered, batting her eyelashes, half innocent, half devilish, and it set a fire low in Nicole’s stomach. She nearly choked on the egg. 

“All right,” Nicole acquiesced. “But you owe me big time,” she teased and, craning her neck toward the sitting room to make sure there were still no signs of life, she stole a quick kiss off Waverly’s lips.

The small bite to her lower lip and Waverly’s blown pupils felt like a promise of something great to come. 

“I’ll see you later,” Waverly said from the door. “Just don’t let her out of your sight until I come back. She’s going through a lot, and I don’t want her to be alone right now.” 

Nicole sighed in defeat. Waverly’s sisterly love for Wynonna was commendable, but Nicole couldn’t shake off the feeling there was something off with the older Earp. Something was nagging Nicole’s brain, just outside of her field of vision, something she had tried to avoid acknowledging each time she heard Wynonna drunkenly yell, “Liberty or death!” and each time she cheered for the Continental Army’s win. 

It was going to be a long day.

~ 

After one too many drinks in one too many taverns she had no idea existed in this city, Nicole was beginning to warm up to this obnoxious woman. Especially after Wynonna had told off a few drunkards and had even sacked one in a jaw, starting a brawl, after he had made uncomely advances toward Nicole. Well, she wasn’t proud of the brawl part, but the right hook Wynonna delivered was something to be admired. Nicole hoped this night would stay between them, lest they got in trouble with a more menacing Earp at home, impressive right hook or not.

They walked home, and Nicole had felt great about that idea, right until they hit Bowery Lane, where the adrenaline left her body and made space for the alcohol to flood her head. She tripped three times between Bayard and St. Nicholas streets, and finally fell face down on the muddy ground, not half a block later. 

“You’re a cute drunk, Haught,” Wynonna grunted, helping her up. “But this helpless puppy thing is not a good look on you.” Regardless of her teasing, she threw Nicole’s arm over her shoulder, supporting some of her weight and straightening her gait.

When they reached the Earp household, Wynonna let go of Nicole. She gave Nicole’s shoulder a pat and brought an index finger to her lips, signaling with her head at the front door. The message was clear. Nicole nodded and inhaled deeply, steadying herself. They could do this. They could sneak in without getting caught by Waverly. They could be quiet.

They entered the house and were immediately met by Waverly standing in the hallway, arms crossed over her chest, her beautiful forehead marred by two horizontal lines. Dim candlelight coming from the sitting room illuminated her frame, bathing her in brilliance and warmth. She was breathtaking, even when cross. 

“You are so pretty, and I like you so much,” left Nicole’s mouth reverently, without her permission.

Thankfully, Wynonna was too focused on not swaying too much herself and didn’t pay Nicole’s words any attention.

“You are drunk!” Waverly yell-whispered. “And in trouble! Both of you!” She pointed her finger at each of them in turn. 

Nicole looked to Wynonna for help, but the woman only hickuped. Deep belly laughter coming from the sitting room, followed by words uttered in an unmistakably Irish brogue, saved their skin. 

“Cousin William’s here?” Wynonna asked, clearly happy for a distraction. 

“Oh.” It was Waverly’s turn to look sheepish. “Yeah, and there’s someone else…” 

As soon as the words left her mouth, a mustachioed gentleman staggered into the hallway, supporting his body with an outstretched arm against the wall, and favoring his left leg. He was missing a coat, and his opulent waistcoat was unbuttoned from the bottom, exposing a wrinkled white shirt underneath. A three-cocked hat sat precariously on the back of his head, ready to take a tumble at any minute. Even in the obvious state of imbibition, Nicole recognized him instantly.

“Doc?” 

“Rudy?” The realization and surprise clearly cut through the cloud of bourbon coursing through his veins. 

“Doc?” Wynonna repeated, surprised, looking between Nicole and the man. 

Waverly parroted, arms still crossed, “Rudy?” 

“You two know each other?” Wynonna’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Oh, uhm,” Nicole stammered. Damn booze and damn the false sense of security she had whenever she entered this little stone house. “My apologies. In this dim light, the gentleman looked like a doctor I knew in Quebec City,” she lied, avoiding Waverly’s eyes. He didn’t look anything like doctor McLeod, and Nicole hadn’t mistaken him for the good doctor. He was the high-ranking American officer who Major André had managed to recruit in Philadelphia to conspire against the revolt. Nicole didn’t know his real name, _Doc_ being his spy alias. She did, however, know that he had gone as far as to marry a Philadelphian woman from a prominent loyalist family as if to prove his allegiance to the Crown.

“Now, that don’t make a lick of sense,” Doc murmured unsteady and plastered a presumably pleasant smile on his face. “Ms. Earp, what a happy coincidence to have finally run into you.” 

“Happy coincidence, my ass,” Wynonna grumbled from the door but pushed forward into the hallway. “Got any whiskey left in there?”

Doc took his hat off and followed the woman deeper into the house like a well-trained dog. 

Nicole watched Waverly’s eyes trail behind the couple and her teeth bite into her lower lip. She waited with bated breath for the rest of Waverly’s wrath. It never came. 

“Are you okay?” Waverly whispered instead. She turned to Nicole and cleared the dirt off her forehead, likely a result of her taking a tumble on the way home. “I know she’s a lot to deal with at her best. And right now, she might be at her lowest…”

Nicole didn’t quite understand what Waverly was referring to, the alcohol in her head running interference each time she thought she was about to connect the dots.

The confusion must have been visible on her face, as Waverly continued, “John Henry is the man I mentioned before. The man that once held Wynonna’s affection.”

_Did Wynonna know he was now a married man? Did she know he was a high-ranking rebel officer? Did she know he defected? _The thoughts cut through both Nicole’s brain and her heart. No matter the answer to any of these questions, Nicole had to play nice with the man who was likely to break Wynonna’s heart all over again.

~ 

Wynonna had left with Doc that night and hadn’t returned home in four days. It didn’t sit well with Nicole, yet she knew she had no higher ground to stand on herself after not disclosing certain specifics about her presence in New York City to Waverly. She wasn’t worried about Waverly’s reaction; if she had some inklings about where Wynonna’s loyalty lay in this conflict, her sweet and kind Waverly most certainly supported the Crown. Her close friendship with Major André all but confirmed it.

It wasn’t that Nicole actively lied to Waverly in the last two years. Truth be told, she hadn’t been involved with espionage or scouting in nearly a year now, and her past activities seemed of little importance. With the fresh British reinforcements landing off the coast of the southern colonies, the theater of war shifted away from New York, away from Nicole. She was ashamed to admit that the only reason she hadn’t requested to be relocated closer to the current battlefields was Waverly and everything dear and good she represented in her life.

Roasting a chicken over the fire, Nicole set the kitchen table for two. Tonight was the night she would come clean about her involvement with the espionage and disclose a few things about John Henry “Doc” Holliday. Waverly would know how to best reach her sister. Carried with the sense of righteousness, Nicole was sure that Waverly would be grateful because Wynonna deserved to know that Doc was married.

As she entered the house, the spark of joy in Waverly’s eyes filled Nicole’s chest with hot air, about to burst with pride. Waverly had been spending long days aiding with the harvest at the Beekmans’ old house and must have been relieved to see the table already set for dinner. Although Nicole didn’t entirely understand why she would go through all this grating work for a family that fled the city and would likely never return to the estate once the British won the war, she admired Waverly’s tenacity.

They ate in relative silence, intersected only by a few anecdotes Waverly had from the long day in the field. When they finished, Nicole took Waverly’s hand in her own.

“I have something to tell you, Waves,” she begun but had to immediately reach for the cup of tea to drown down the persistent scratch that threatened to close up her throat. “I uhm…” Nicole looked into Waverly’s eyes, so kind and open and full of joy. “I love you,” she whispered.

It wasn’t what she intended to say, but it wasn’t any less true. Tears filled her eyes, even though she was the farthest from sorrow. They had never vocalized their feelings for one another before, and Waverly’s eyes crinkled in the corners from a blinding smile.

Nicole wanted to continue, to tell Waverly how she ended up in the city in the first place, but Waverly stopped her with a soft hand on her cheek. “Come here, beautiful.”

And Nicole went, willingly and gladly. The kiss, slow and tender, yet fiery and passionate all at once, conveyed Waverly’s feelings as well as any words would. Waverly licked into Nicole’s mouth and scratched the back of her scalp in a way that always drove Nicole crazy. She shifted on the chair to be closer to Waverly. When the girl bit into her lower lip and smiled into the kiss, Nicole growled at her playfully and rose to her feet, bringing Waverly’s body flush with hers. She lifted the smaller woman in her arms and headed toward the stairs to continue what Waverly had started in the safety of their bedroom, all thoughts of the conversation she had intended to have long forgotten, buried deep beneath the burning, raging desire. 

A step away from the first stair, Nicole heard a godawful sound come from the sitting room. She nearly dropped Waverly, covering up her terror by taking a protective step in front of the woman. The screechy noise repeated; it sounded like nails scratching against wood as if a dead corpse was demanding to be let out of a coffin. That thought brought a cold sweat to Nicole’s palms – she’d seen enough death and poor constitution in the siege of Quebec City and at the Continental camp.

Waverly grunted, “Let’s get it out, and once it’s out, we’ll go upstairs.” She sent Nicole a wink and moved toward the sitting room. 

“Waverly, wait. No, no, no,” Nicole grabbed Waverly’s arm in utter panic. “What are you doing?”

Confused lines showed on Waverly’s forehead, “What do you mean? It’s just a squirrel in the chimney, silly.” 

“A squirrel?” Nicole’s voice took on such a high pitch, she would forever deny it. A squirrel was better than a dead corpse in Nicole’s book, but only marginally so. 

Waverly smiled kindly and grabbed her hand. “Come on. I’ll open the vent, and we’ll try to shoo it toward the front door.” 

The prospect of a cat-sized rodent in their home drained all the blood from Nicole’s face. Still, she dutifully followed Waverly. She would always follow Waverly. Nicole went to unlock the front door and left it wide open, grabbing a broom on the way back to the sitting room. It wasn’t her weapon of choice, but it would have to suffice in the forthcoming battle.

“Poor thing,” Waverly cooed as the squeals and panicked scrapes came from the chimney. For a second, Nicole thought she was referring to her person before she realized she was worried about the furry devil instead.

Waverly unlatched the vent, and the squirrel came flying, bouncing off the walls in search of an exit. Nicole wielded the broom courageously, even if an unseemly shriek left her mouth. Waverly chased the creature gleefully, giggling at Nicole and the commotion in equal measures. They finally managed to force the squirrel into the hallway. At first sight of an open door, it took a hasty retreat, clearly as elated with this outcome as Nicole was. Waverly fell into Nicole’s arms, carefree and breathless.

Just as Nicole let out a relaxed breath and chuckled at the whole insane ordeal, the door swung open again, and Wynonna stepped into the house. Raising a brow at the embracing couple, she uttered, “He left back to Philadelphia. We fucked for four days straight, and only then had he have the gumption to tell me he married someone else there.” She broke down crying – an image Nicole had never imagined possible – and Waverly disentangled herself from Nicole to take Wynonna in her arms instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waverly’s actions in this chapter were based on Anna Smith Strong, a spy from New York, and one of the only women confirmed to be a part of the famous Culper Spy Ring. She used her clothesline to relay information to a courier who ran missions for General Washington. It was a brilliantly simple way of passing the crucial information right under the British noses.
> 
> Many Patriots truly believed in the underlying principles of the Declaration of Independence, and many questioned the paradoxical assertion by the American slaveowners that they had the right to do so. The quote marked with asterisk came from a letter from Abigail Adams to her husband. Abigail was not only a wife to John Adams – the Founding Father and the second president of the US – but also his closest advisor AND a mother to John Quincy Adams – the sixth American president. Some people consider her to be one of the Founders of the United States (the group we typically refer to as the Founding Fathers).
> 
> It is a common misconception that black Americans didn’t participate in any of the armed conflicts until the Civil War. In fact, although forgotten by history, they participated in the American Revolutionary War on both sides. It’s estimated that about 9,000 African-Americans were a part of the Continental Army and Navy, making it about 4% of the total American forces. The 1st Rhode Island Regiment – aka the Black Regiment – contained several companies of black soldiers and was one of the very few units of the Continental Army to serve throughout the entire war. It is regarded as the first black regiment in the US.


	6. 1780. Agent 355

_ 1780. _

It has been about five months since they had all seen John Henry Holliday last. It was easy to keep track of, really, as Wynonna’s belly – now the size of a lantern pumpkin – reminded everyone of it daily. Wynonna had moved back home and now shared the downstairs bedroom with mama, complaining that she didn’t want to carry the extra weight around her waist upstairs every night.

The winter had been the coldest anyone could remember; the New York Harbor froze over, and yet Waverly felt a different type of chill enter their home. The honeymoon phase granted to Nicole and Waverly thanks to a more-often-than-not empty house was now over. Nicole had become distant, irate even, undoubtfully as a response to Waverly spending more time with her pregnant sister, and the said sister mercilessly teasing Nicole on every turn. 

Trying to patch things up, Waverly had devised numerous plans to spend quality time alone with Nicole, yet Wynonna, guided by some sort of a sixth sense, always managed to prevent anything from coming to fruition. Three weeks ago, just as they were about to leave for a leisurely day at a beach on the Hudson, Wynonna broke down in tears, crying over the fact that the poor baby wouldn’t even have a crib, as it didn’t have a father to build one for it. Waverly had sent Nicole an apologetic nod over breakfast and took Wynonna shopping for baby furniture in the city. Or just last weekend, when they had planned on having a picnic at the Common, Wynonna insisted that there was something wrong with the baby. And so Waverly walked with her to the doctor instead. As it had turned out, nothing was out of ordinary – the baby was just making its presence known by delivering a few well-placed kicks and punches. Nicole had snorted at dinner, murmuring something about it definitely being Wynonna’s spawn. Waverly didn’t get the joke.

Today, Waverly decided not to allow Wynonna to derail their plans. She craved the intimacy, both physical and emotional, that she had grown to take for granted from Nicole. While Wynonna and mama were gone from the early hours of the day, Waverly packed all the supplies they needed in a large wicker basket. They would spend the afternoon at the Beekmans’ old house, which now stood abandoned and had been unofficially passed onto the Earps for safekeeping. She had managed to barter for one of the most popular board games – The Royal and Most Pleasant Game of the Goose – and she planned an afternoon full of fun and tomfoolery. Just her, Nicole, board games, and hard apple cider. And if that led to more physical contact, Waverly wouldn’t be opposed to it; she would even settle on some cuddles and languid kisses, so starved was she of Nicole.

When Wynonna barged into the house, surprising precisely no one with her timing, and wreaked havoc in the sitting room and mama’s bedroom, Nicole sent Waverly a challenging look over the newspaper spread she was perusing at the kitchen table. That one raised eyebrow spoke volumes and nearly dared Waverly to cancel their plans in favor of her sister. Waverly tried to send her a placating smile in return, but even she could feel that it turned out rather shaky.

Wynonna entered the kitchen with a swoosh of her black dress, a bag slung over her shoulder, and an air of determination. “Listen, babygirl, I have to leave for a little while, but I promise that everything will be fine in due time.”

The front door slammed shut. An agitated voice of mama reached them, long seconds before the upset woman made an appearance in the kitchen, “What were you thinking!?”

Wynonna bristled and cradled her baby-bump protectively, “I was _thinking_ about my future child!” 

“No, you clearly weren’t! Or else you wouldn’t have…” Michelle glanced at Nicole and stopped in her tracks. “Nicole dear, this is a sensitive family matter. Would you mind giving us some time? There was a fresh meat delivery at the butcher on Mulberry – maybe you could pick up some beef for the week?” Her face didn’t convey much emotion, yet her voice betrayed her anger. 

Sending a resigned look at Waverly, Nicole stood up without a word and moved to leave.

“I’ll go with you!” Waverly exclaimed, grasping at straws.

“No, you’ll stay,” mama all but ordered.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Waverly stomped her foot. This was important. _Nicole_ _was important_, and she wouldn’t allow this week’s Earp drama to hamper her plans.

“Waverly, don’t,” Wynonna whispered, and there was something so gentle in her voice, so _unlike Wynonna_, that Waverly stayed, allowing Nicole to turn on her heel and leave. The dejected way she hung her head, forced tears of anger and failure into Waverly’s eyes. 

Alone with her daughters, mama continued, “Your older sister decided it was a good idea to travel in her state to General Washington’s camp to inform him _personally_ that one Major General John Henry Holliday was conspiring with the British.” 

“What? That can’t possibly be true,” Waverly was speechless. She turned to Wynonna, “You made that up, didn’t you? You made that up because he got you pregnant and left, and now you want revenge. Is that it!?” She always liked John Henry, who was like a brother to their father, and she wouldn’t accept that he would ever go as far as selling out to the enemy. Not after everything he went through for this country. 

“Babygirl,” uncharacteristically, Wynonna pleaded instead of exploding back. “We learned about this a week ago from two independent sources. I didn’t make it up. He defected because he felt that the Continental Congress has been taking him for granted, that they had never acknowledged his accomplishments, especially after the Battle of Quebec.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Well, whether you believe it or not, is really not the point of this conversation,” mama cut in. “Wynonna traveled across the enemy lines, and we have an indication that she was followed all the way to the Continental camp.”

“I know, all right!” was the first time Wynonna lost her temper. “That’s why I’m packed, and I’ll have to disappear until it all settles down. The lobsters probably just have a generic description of a woman; it will be hard for them to pin it down on me.” 

“Not with that belly, it won’t.”

Waverly listened to them bicker for the following five minutes. She couldn’t believe that Wynonna would be so petty, so contemptible, to accuse a man of such high standing as John Henry Holliday of a crime punishable by death. 

“Whatever. I’m leaving,” Wynonna announced abruptly. She gave mama a short hug, the air between them still charged with anger. Waverly took a step back when her sister approached her next.

“Waves?” Wynonna searched her face. Waverly shook her head in defiance. “Waverly, listen…” But whatever Wynonna had to say was lost to the banging on the front door.

“Open the door in the name of the Crown!” 

A panicked look crossed mama’s face, “Take the back door. I’ll stall them.”

Wynonna ran, sending one last pained look toward her sister. Waverly stayed rooted on the spot, unable to comprehend what was happening.

A commotion in the back drew her attention. Two British soldiers manhandled Wynonna, dragging her through the house to the front door. The violent scene snapped Waverly into action.

“Leave the woman alone! Can’t you see she’s pregnant?” Waverly screamed at them. 

“Waves, it will be all right,” Wynonna yelled, being steered away roughly. “Just remember to play with dolls – they are your best friend!”

Waverly barely registered her sister’s words, and even less so her meaning.

As Wynonna was forced into a horse-drawn coach, mama got in the face of the officer outside the house, “We are a prominent Loyalist family, and I hope you realize what a great mistake you are making, sir. We are on great terms with General Howe, who I am sure will scold you for mistreating a pregnant woman, in what must be a case of mistaken identity.”

“Please take a step back, ma’am,” the British officer replied, almost bored. “Is this fugitive of your relation?”

Mama took offense at the choice of words but nodded nonetheless.

“Then you may be questioned as to her actions against the King. She stands accused of partaking in a network of rebel spies under a pseudonym of Agent 355.” He handed mama an official-looking piece of paper and retreated inside the coach. 

The two remaining Earp women watched helplessly as Wynonna was driven away.

~

After a month of reaching out to every contact they had in the British army, including cousin William and General Howe, and getting precisely nowhere closer to discovering where Wynonna was being held, Waverly felt a deluge of defeat run over her, drowning her in anguish. She hasn’t exactly given up quite yet – she just wasn’t sure who else to turn to. Every day Wynonna wasn’t back home, was a day closer to her due date, and that terrified Waverly even more. It was harder and harder to get up every morning, not knowing where Wynonna might be and what treatment she was suffering.

Walking downstairs still wrapped in her sleep robe, Waverly hoped for a cup of black, properly steeped tea. A hushed conversation underway in the kitchen ceased the second she stepped inside. 

“Dolls? Good morning! What a surprise!” Waverly grabbed the top of the robe, holding it closer together for modesty. Even sleepy and tired, she didn’t miss the shake of Nicole’s head aimed at the man as if she was silently directing him to keep quiet about something.

“Good morning, Waverly,” Dolls responded in a soft voice, apparently gentle with her on account of Wynonna missing. 

Trudging toward the stove to set a kettle on for tea, Waverly was surprised to notice the deafening silence around them. When she turned to look at Nicole questioningly, she noted the newspaper Nicole was subtly trying to hide underneath her leggings-clad thigh.

“All right. What’s going on here?” Waverly demanded.

“Don’t,” Nicole warned Dolls.

“Don’t what, Nicole? Is it about Wynonna? You better not be hiding information about my sister from me!” That thought woke her up more than any black tea ever could. 

“Waverly, it is not about Wynonna. I promise,” Nicole responded. 

“She’ll find out about it one way or another. It will be kinder if she learns from us, instead of the newspaper,” Dolls tried to reason with Nicole.

Waverly bristled at the thought that Nicole would ever try to conceal information from her, even if she thought she was doing it to protect her.

Sighing in defeat, Nicole agreed. “Why don’t you sit down, Waverly. I’ll make you some tea.”

The clock in the hallway chimed nine times. Waverly crossed her arms over her chest defiantly and silently refused to sit. 

“Waverly…” Dolls started but looked back to Nicole for reinforcement. 

“Waverly, Major John André was captured by the Continental Army and uhm… He was executed yesterday for being a spy,” Nicole delivered the news, quickly getting up to provide physical support. 

But Waverly didn’t want any comfort at that moment. She extended her arm as if to keep Nicole at a distance. 

“John is dead?” arm still outstretched, was all she asked. “How did it happen? I thought he was safe in Philadelphia, away from the Southern campaign.” 

“Major André was returning from finalizing the terms of surrendering West Point to the British with John Henry Holliday,” Dolls took it upon himself to elaborate and perhaps provide Waverly a bit of closure. “Traveling in civilian clothes as to conceal his identity, he was captured by chance by robbers employed by the Continental Army. Even though he provided them with the passport papers Holliday gave him, they still searched his person, and discovered the secret documents outlining his collaboration with Holliday.” 

Waverly felt tears drop down her cheeks and swiped at them angrily. “Did he at least die an honorable death?”

“Well…” Dolls started but passed that one to Nicole again, who sat back down but moved her chair closer to the crying woman. 

“He was put on trial, and while the jury was sympathetic to a young… young and charming officer – we know how charming he was, don’t we?” Nicole earned a pained smile from Waverly. “Even though they were sympathetic because he was really only doing his job at a time of war, General Washington insisted that he be tried as a spy because he was captured out of uniform.” 

“Why would he do that? Washington is a fair man. Why would he do that?” Waverly repeated herself, looking deeply into Nicole’s eyes to try and find a morsel of reason and kindness in this cruel world. 

“Uhm… We don’t know for sure, but it appears that Washington was already informed by his spy network about Holliday’s treason, and that betrayal affected his judgment.”

“John Henry really did it, then,” it clicked for Waverly. “He really defected.” 

“He did, Waverly,” Dolls confirmed. “When we offered to exchange Major André for that traitor, Holliday, he sent General Washington an arrogant letter, angering the man even more.” 

“You were there?” Waverly asked through tears. 

“I was,” Dolls nodded. “Major André died an honest man, requesting to be executed by a firing squad. Even though General Washington denied his request, Major André faced the gallows in an impeccable suit, freshly shaven, and with his head held up high.”

“He always claimed that men needed to take greater care of themselves. That they wouldn’t immediately revert to savages on the battlefield if they looked like civilized folk,” shaking her head, Waverly remembered her dear friend. “Oh god, poor Wynonna,” she couldn’t stop the sobs any longer. “I didn’t believe her. She told me she informed Washington of John Henry’s betrayal, and I thought she made it up… I could have warned John in Philadelphia. I could have written to him and let him know that the Continental Army knows that Holliday defected. I could have kept him safe.” 

“Oh, Waverly,” Nicole whispered from the safety of her chair. 

Having had enough time to process the information, Waverly finally accepted Nicole’s consolation. She collapsed into her arms, weeping for the gentlest, most creative and intelligent man in her life. For the man, who discussed literature with her, who taught her to play the piano, and who patiently listened to her ramble on about her first steps in the relationship with Nicole. A man who she felt she could be herself around. A man who was her closest friend.

A man who also happened to be a high-ranking British officer.

Nicole held her and whispered softly into her hair until they heard the grandfather clock chime eleven times. Dolls was long gone. Mama wasn’t home. Wynonna was captured and held prisoner. Her father hasn’t returned from war. And now, John was dead.

Nicole was all Waverly had left.

~XXX~

Nicole was angry. She was angry with Wynonna for being so utterly irresponsible and unimaginative. She was angry with Major André for making a deal with the devil. She was angry with this drawn-out war that has lasted longer and consumed more lives than anyone could have anticipated. 

But mostly, she was angry with herself for being so in love with Waverly that she had failed to notice – or rather acknowledge – Wynonna’s clandestine actions right under her nose. She wasn’t sure what she would have done had she known. Keep a better eye on Holliday – maybe? Warn Major André of Holliday’s entanglement with the Earps – perhaps? Protect Waverly to a greater extent – most certainly.

As it was, she felt a great responsibility for the outcome of it all – Major André was dead, Wynonna was imprisoned, and Waverly… Her joyful, full of life, vibrant Waverly was now suffering under the weight of a loss exasperated by its concentration and poor timing. She ate very little and slept until noon, and there was not much Nicole could do to help her through it. 

Not much, perhaps, except for one thing.

She would have to find Wynonna’s location and do everything in her – unarguably limited – power to have her released. 

“Where is that girl? I told her yesterday that the cream was ready to be churned,” Michelle interrupted Nicole’s ruminations. 

Working in the sitting room on a series of letters to all her British and Canadian contacts, Nicole tried to placate the woman, whose short temper has recently been cut by a few more inches. “Waverly’s still sleeping, Michelle. I’ll be happy to help with making butter – she taught me how a couple of years ago.”

“Sleeping? Who’s heard of such a thing? It’s 11 o’clock, for crying out loud. We’re short a few hands ‘round here, in case she hasn’t noticed.”

Trying to be understanding of Michelle’s attitude in that trying time, Nicole continued evenly, “She’s noticed. You know she’s noticed. She just needs more time after Major André’s unexpected demise.”

“Silly girl, mourning an enemy,” shaking her head, Michelle made a move toward the steps, undoubtfully intending on dragging Waverly downstairs herself. 

Nicole’s patience and understanding ran out. Getting up to her feet rapidly, she moved in front of the woman, blocking her pathway to the upstairs bedroom. “Waverly is sleeping,” she intoned through gritted teeth. “And you’ll let her sleep since she’s not _mourning an enemy_. She’s grieving for a close friend who was executed in the most shameful way possible for a soldier, all because of one man’s butthurt ego. How would you feel about William being hanged like a dog, Michelle? Would you also refer to him as an _enemy_?”

Michelle looked at her, really looked at her, in that unnerving way Wynonna would sometimes when you weren’t sure whether she was about to sock you on the jaw or express her respect begrudgingly. The resemblance was uncanny, and Nicole swallowed hard but didn’t budge.

“That’s fair,” was all Michelle finally offered, leaving the sitting room.

~

“That’s an awful conundrum you got yourself into, Nicole.” Reclining over a wooden post of a bridge, his uniform impeccable as always, Nedley looked at least a decade older than the last time she’d seen him.

Nicole nodded, looking at the distance. The Pocantico River, so clear and calm, reflected the trees and the sky, creating an illusion of a hidden world just underneath the surface. The water mill at the end of the bridge rotated lazily with the flow of the river, day in and day out, unperturbed by the events of the war and the lives lost and ruined. The Philipsburg Manor house, with every brick whitewashed to perfection, shone so bright in the early afternoon sun that Nicole had to squint to protect her sight. 

They met in Sleepy Hollow, about 30 miles north up the Hudson from the city. After receiving her letters requesting help with locating a prisoner of war, Nedley had arranged for her to meet with General Sir Henry Clinton – a new British Commander-in-Chief in North America. Nicole may have omitted a few crucial facts about Wynonna’s person, but the overall sentiment of a pregnant woman, who had helped Nicole in New York was close enough to the truth.

She kept quiet, lest an unhelpful confession left her mouth, and started off in the direction of the manor house, Nedley soon falling into step with her.

They were welcomed cordially by a maid, who directed them to a relatively small sitting room. The interior of the house was not as opulent as Nicole would have imagined for the head of the British army in the Americas. It was certainly clean and tastefully decorated, but the inside – just as the surrounding estate – reminded Nicole of a countryside residence.

“Mrs. Barnes, was it?” Nicole was dragged away from examining the room by a newcomer. The markings on his epaulets immediately identified him as General Clinton. He was clutching delicate ornamental porcelain cup and saucer in his massive palms. Clearly, they had accidentally interrupted the man’s tea time. 

After a brief second of putting two and two together, Nedley saluted. General Clinton’s arm twitched mechanically in response. He smiled, looking down at the cup in his hands. “At rest,” he ordered and looked questioningly at Nicole.

“Oh,” she realized he asked her a question. “Yes, that used to be my alias. My real name is Nicole Haught, sir.”

“Take a seat,” the General indicated a sofa opposite an armchair he intended to occupy. “I heard great things about your contributions to our intelligence, Mrs. Haught. The information you gathered at Washington’s camp in White Plains aided us greatly in the Battle of Rhode Island.” 

“It’s _Ms._ Haught,” Nicole corrected. “And thank you, sir.”

General Clinton smiled over his teacup, not unkindly. “I was informed you had a personal request, Ms. Haught. Go ahead.” 

“Yes, well. I uhm… I’m looking for a friend. A woman who helped me in New York City. She was pregnant when taken prisoner a few months ago.”

“And I presume you want to have her released? Are you suggesting we have wrongfully imprisoned her?”

“With all due respect, sir, wrongful or not, what crime could a pregnant woman have committed to warrant indefinite detention?” Nicole was grasping at straws. 

“You, Ms. Haught, are the best example of why we should cease underestimating women’s abilities in this conflict. It is rather unheard of for us to imprison a woman; there must have been plenty of evidence of her wrongdoings and association with the rebels.” He looked at her long and hard, taking a sip of the tea. 

Nicole knew it was a long shot. Her strategy to downplay Wynonna’s crimes against the Crown backfired spectacularly. General Clinton was right, of course, and Nicole couldn’t find it in herself to diminish her own accomplishments, alongside the contributions of all the female spies that would come after her. She hung her head down in a silent defeat. 

“I assume you have contacted the POW facilities in New York and came up short. It is likely, then, that she’s being held on one of our prison ships,” General Clinton provided, surprising Nicole. “I am in a perilous position, Ms. Haught. I have been successful in my Southern campaigns thus far, capturing Charleston from the rebels. We need to continue this victorious march, yet I am wary of the Washington army in the North joining forces with the French who foolishly threw in their hat into the ring.” He placed the teacup and the saucer down on the side table and straightened his red military jacket. “I need a trusted pair of eyes to travel through the enemy camp and report back to me.”

Listening carefully, Nicole nodded in understanding, “I am willing to take that risk, General Clinton. I have done it in the past.”

“Nicole,” quiet up until this point, Nedley spoke up. “The French keep a much tighter grip on their camp than the Americans ever did. We have tried infiltrating it numerous times, losing several of our top spies in the process. This is a suicide mission,” he warned.

General Clinton raised an eyebrow at the officer speaking out of turn. He directed his next words at Nicole, “In return for your service, I am willing to assist you in finding and releasing the friend of yours. No questions asked.”

Nicole looked at Nedley. His mustache twitched, yet he remained silent after being on the receiving end of the General’s quiet reprimand. She turned to the man whose power was infinite in this land.

“I’ll do it, sir.” 

~

General Clinton kept his word, and Nicole received a message five days later that Wynonna was held on HMS Jersey that was hulked in Wallabout Bay, just off the shores of Brookland. All those months they had spent looking for her far and wide, and she’s been imprisoned right under their noses! 

Wearing a regulation long red coat, that was gifted to her by General Clinton, over her black skirts, and a blue three-cocked hat, Nicole dismounted her horse once she reached the shoreline. She handed a letter that granted her access to the ship to a young Hessian soldier waiting in front of the gangplank. He scanned the page quickly and handed the paper back to her. “This way,” he said in a heavy German accent, taking quick assured steps on board. Nicole followed.

They went down the stairs to below the deck. She had seen the horrors of a battle and the poor conditions of the Continental Army camp, yet nothing could have prepared her for the inhumane realities of a prison ship. When in service, HMS Jersey must have been designed for no more than 400 sailors, yet every inch of it was now occupied by human bodies. There must have been over a thousand people cramped there. Nicole couldn’t even be sure that everyone there was still alive.

The stench that welcomed them forced her to cover her mouth with a handkerchief. With the heat of the summer sun beating down on the deck, the temperatures below were sweltering. Most men were naked, trying to cool off in what truly felt like hell on earth. Their faces were sunken, pale, and sickly – Nicole knew it was the Continental Army’s duty to provide food and medical attention to the soldiers captured by the British, and after experiencing first-hand the food shortages the active-duty American soldiers faced, she wasn’t surprised there wasn’t much left for the prisoners of war.

The Hessian soldier navigated skillfully through the sea of ghastly prisoners. There was a certain air of apathy surrounding them; some men were praying, others were swearing or even crying, but nobody tried as much as to reach for Nicole or the guard. Some of them weren’t even bothered by a copious number of rats swarming the floors. 

As they reached the corner of the room, it got considerably darker; a lamp hanging precariously from the ceiling was barely flickering on, undoubtfully struggling to stay alight due to a limited supply of oxygen around them.

Right there, in the corner of that overcrowded, rotten, filthy room, Nicole spotted Wynonna. Unlike most other prisoners, she was given a few inches of space on each side. Initially, Nicole had thought how considerate it was of the other inmates, but one look at Wynonna’s determined face convinced her it must have been a hard-fought privilege. 

Among everything unexpected and brutal on the ship, the one thing that stopped Nicole in her track was a little bundle cradled protectively in Wynonna’s arms. Nicole’s eyes watered, but after a momentary pause in her pace, she caught up to the guard.

“Is this the woman you are looking for?” he asked, pointing the butt of his musket at Wynonna.

The surprise was evident on Wynonna’s face. A second away from changing into a grin, Wynonna’s expression turned sour. She’d noticed Nicole’s red coat.

“Yes, it is,” Nicole responded absently, already crouching down and reaching for the woman. 

Wynonna smiled sweetly at the guard but swatted Nicole’s outstretched hand away. The sunken cheeks and dark bags underneath her eyes spoke volumes about her state of malnutrition. Her typically luscious hair was dull and graying. Her skirts were ripped and grimy.

Wynonna clambered to her feet, dislodging the baby from a peaceful slumber. It waved a tiny arm around, disoriented. When Nicole, spellbound and mesmerized, took a step forward, the baby grabbed onto one of the large white buttons of her red coat. After a momentary fascination with the object, it looked up, seemingly staring right into Nicole’s eyes. 

“What’s their name?” Nicole whispered. 

Wynonna’s lips crumpled together in fury and a silent refusal to speak. Noticing the guard’s close attention on them, however, Wynonna provided after a beat, “Alice. Alice Michelle.”

Nicole smiled at the baby and at the thought of an unsuspecting Michelle, running her daily errands back in the city. It was going to be an evening of celebration and joy at the Earp house tonight. 

“Is this a conjugal visit, or are we walking out of here today?” Wynonna asked, impatient.

“Right, of course,” Nicole unglued her eyes from Alice. “We’re ready,” she told the guard. When he didn’t make a move and kept staring at Wynonna’s exposed neckline, Nicole took a protective step next to the woman and tossed an arm around her waist. She could deal with Wynonna’s wrath for invading her personal space later.

The man nodded and turned around, leading them up the creaky stairs to the main deck. Wynonna squinted, likely exposed to sunlight for the first time in months. Alice Michelle started squalling, equally unaccustomed to the fresh air, space, and light. They walked hastily down the gangplank, the tension clearly visible in Wynonna’s shoulders as if she was expecting the guard to change his mind any minute.

Back on the shore, Nicole untied her horse, grabbed the reins, and they hurried away from the bay. Once at a safe distance, Nicole offered, “Why don’t you get on the horse, and I’ll hand Alice to you? It’s a long walk back home.” 

Wynonna spun around on the spot, throwing a vigilant glance toward the prison ship. “Home?” she hissed. “You have some gall to call that place your _home_, Haught.” If Nicole thought for one second that motherhood and the experiences of being a prisoner had softened Wynonna, she was greatly mistaken. 

“I’m sorry, what on earth are you referring to?” 

“You’re one of them. I should have known. Look at that coat!” Wynonna scoffed. “Actually, I _did_ know. I suspected from the very beginning, but mama convinced me that you were _Canadien_ and on our side. You must be a big fish for them lobsters to let me go, based on one word from you, huh?”

“Wynonna, it’s nothing like that…” Nicole tried to explain.

“Save it,” Wynonna cut her off. “You are not coming back with me,” her tone was cold as ice. “You got me out, and so I’ll do you a favor and not mention any of this,” she motioned at Nicole’s jacket, “to Waverly. But you _will_ disappear today. I’d rather my sister wonder where you vanished to than have her heart broken by a duplicitous lackey of the King.” 

“Wynonna… I… I love her…” Nicole whispered back. When she had left this morning, it was with every intention of returning back and gifting Wynonna back to Waverly and Michelle. This outcome had not crossed her mind. 

Something akin to pity and understanding crossed Wynonna’s eyes, but it was gone as fast as it appeared. “You _used_ us. And if you have ever hoped to turn Waves to your side, I will gladly enlighten you that she’s been as involved with the Culper Ring as I was. She’s anything but a timid loyalist girl you took her for.”

The words stung. Nicole grit her jaws. She had never considered Waverly to be timid. True, she believed the Earps to be a loyalist family for much longer than she should have, taken her training in the counter-intelligence, but only because of how blinded she was with love. It dawned on her now how obviously patriotic Waverly had been this entire time. 

She blinked multiple times in a quick succession, putting everything together.

Considering her options, Nicole realized that Wynonna was right – she couldn’t come back home now. She shouldn’t. The red coat she had agreed to wear in that meeting with General Clinton represented something to the Earp family that Waverly would never understand, would never forgive. It didn’t matter much that Nicole’s accepted the final spy mission to save Wynonna. Her earlier involvement with the Brits and, quite frankly, her deep belief in the right of the Crown to protect the Kingdom, put her at odds with everything the Earps stood for. How had she allowed herself to become so immersed in Waverly to have never had an honest conversation about the war raging around them?

Accepting the defeat, Nicole grabbed onto the reigns a bit harder and looked back into the distance. The marshy waters of Wallabout Bay were calmly concealing the horrors taking place on HMS Jersey and several other prison ships. Beyond the bay, the tip of Manhattan Island was clearly visible in the distance. The city of New York, which Nicole despised at first but had quickly grown to associate with home, _with Waverly_, seemed to haunt her from afar. From now on, she would resign herself with seeing it only out in the distance, always staying in the shadows of the city outskirts. She would help General Clinton win this war, yet in private and from the safe distance, she would do everything she could to ensure that the Earp women stayed safe and out of danger. 

Nodding at Wynonna in a silent agreement, Nicole pulled the reigns in the opposite direction. There was nothing else left to say. And even if she tried, her throat constricted with unshed tears, preventing any words from bubbling up.

“And for fuck’s sake, take off that three-cocked hat!” Wynonna yelled triumphantly at her back, adding a few more poorly thought-out jokes relating to cocks, Nicole would rather not repeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout this entire story, Doc has been a stand-in for a real-life man named **Benedict Arnold**. Throughout the war, he repeatedly claimed that he was passed over for promotion, and being injured twice in battles made him profoundly bitter. Arnold was extremely ambitious and jealous. Even though Washington was one of a very few high-ranked officers who admired him, Arnold still believed that Washington betrayed him. He eventually lost all faith and hope in the American cause, married a loyalist woman, and conspired with a British officer – Major John André – to surrender West Point to the enemy. After their plot was discovered, Arnold switched sides and escaped to England after the war had ended. He is considered one of the most infamous traitors in American history.
> 
> (You can probably sense that I have a limited amount of patience for Doc's repeated redemption arcs in canon.) _Insert a shrug emoji._
> 
> **Agent 355** was a code name of an American female spy, involved with the Culper Ring. Her true identity is unknown, and while some speculate who it may have been, others suggest that the number 355 may have simply been a code for a “lady,” meaning it referred to numerous different women throughout the war. She played a major role in exposing Arnold and the arrest of Major André. She was arrested and imprisoned on HMS Jersey, where she was told to have given birth.  
(If you ever played Assassins Creed III, you will recognize her name).
> 
> **Major John André** was a British officer who was unfortunate enough to get the short-end of the stick in the deal with Benedict Arnold. He was captured out of uniform and executed by the Americans, likely because Washington was bitter because of Arnold’s betrayal. John André was a proper British gentleman; he spoke numerous languages, played piano, organized plays while stationed in Philadelphia, sketched, and painted. He was only 30 years old.
> 
> **British Prison Ships**, including the notoriously horrific HMS Jersey, were old navy ships, hulked in Wallabout Bay (in New York Harbor, now a site of Brooklyn Navy Yard), and used to keep the American prisoners since the British occupied land was limited. The treatment of prisoners of war was much different then from what we’re used to now, thanks to the Geneva Convention. For one, the care and all the supplies (food, medical, etc.) for the captives were expected to be provided by their own side of the conflict or by private resources. Since the American Army was already short on most basic provisions, very little, if anything, was sent to care for the captured American soldiers. Over 10,000 American POW died in captivity (that’s about half of the total American casualties of that war!). Their bodies were often simply tossed overboard or buried in shallow graves along the shoreline; many of the remains washed up over the years after the war. The Prison Ship Martyrs’ Monument at Fort Greene Park was created as a remembrance of that atrocity.  



	7. 1781. Miss Jenny

_ 1781. _

In the past year, three miracles had graced the Earp family. First, Wynonna had unexpectedly returned home, just when Waverly nearly lost all hopes of ever seeing her again. As a reason for her release, she mumbled something about the redcoats not wanting to deal with a newborn any longer – nobody questioned her about it any further, so excited were they to have her back. 

Wynonna returned with a beautiful baby girl in her arms, who remarkably remained healthy enough through the whole ordeal, if a bit malnourished. _Alice Michelle._ Mama had openly cried when Wynonna quietly revealed her given name. The baby was cheerful and inquisitive, crawling curiously through all the corners of the house, mumbling happily to herself.

A couple of months after Wynonna’s return, a knock on the door announced a visitor. Waverly hadn’t recognized the man, wearing tattered clothes and sporting an overgrown beard that covered all of his chin and upper lip. Ward Earp had been released from captivity in a sweeping exchange for British POWs – one of the first such exchanges of the war, which to many indicated a clear signal of the King’s willingness to negotiate with the Americans.

Limping and supporting his left side on a cane, their father had cried when he finally reached the house. He became even more taciturn and spent most of the days sitting on the porch, his eyes fixed on something undefined in the distance. He never talked about his journey or his captivity, at least not to Waverly. She had worried at first what his reaction to Wynonna’s out-of-wedlock child would be, especially considering who the father of the said child was, but Ward took to Alice instantaneously. He never let her out of his sight, patiently allowing the toddler to pull his beard, assembling a ball out of leather for her to play with, and – recently – assisting her in her first shaky steps. Waverly felt a nagging shame and guilt for giving up on him so shortly after they had stopped receiving his correspondence. Combined with his unnerving quietude, she didn’t know how to connect with him, but boy, was she glad he was alive and back home.

The Earp clan was back together with one tiny joyous addition. The three miracles that brought back Wynonna, Alice, and Ward were extraordinary. Most American families were lucky to be granted but one small grace over the course of the past six years. And so, Waverly smiled, and laughed, and played with her niece, and helped mama in the kitchen, and fought in jest with Wynonna over the breakfast eggs. She put on a contended façade because she was supposed to, because having her family back was everything she could have ever wished for. But on the inside, Waverly was heartbroken and gloomy, because Nicole wasn’t there to share in all this joy.

She wasn’t home.

Nicole had disappeared on the day of Wynonna’s return as if the universe was telling Waverly that she couldn’t have both. That to maintain the balance, she had to give Nicole up to gain Wynonna and Alice. Waverly had waited in the upstairs bedroom that night, sitting wide awake in _their_ bed, anxious to share this fantastic news with Nicole, who never came back. There was no message, no letter, no explanation. All her clothes were still in their chest of drawers, her shoes were kicked carelessly by the door, her towel was hanging to dry on the bedpost.

Nicole had vanished into thin air.

And the most isolating part of it all was that in that house teeming with life and filled with laughter, Waverly had no one to turn to, no shoulder to cry on. John André was dead. Mama was busy nursing their father back to health. Ward barely spoke a word to anyone. And her sister, bless her soul, was the last person who would understand Waverly’s feelings for Nicole. 

Even the bags of grain and flour that had mysteriously appeared on their porch that morning didn’t bring a real smile to Waverly’s lips. In a city troubled by food shortages in recent months, the sudden appearance of those bags on the Earp’s stairs bordered on miraculous. To Waverly, it felt empty. Like another attempt by the universe to bribe her into finding joy in something else rather than Nicole’s warm eyes. 

Eventually, her emotions stewed under the lid for far too long, threatening to boil over. Waverly couldn’t handle suffering in silence anymore. The things she felt were too big for her little frame, too crushing to let the words of misery be left unspoken. And so, she found a perfect set of tiny ears to listen, and listen they did without judgment.

“Nicole is so brave, you know? I already told you the story of how she crossed the enemy lines that one year to sell food to our troops up north. But she would also constantly perform these little acts of courage, kindness, and self-sacrifice.” Pulling potatoes out of the ground, Waverly talked to baby Alice, who was bundled up in a wicker basket nearby. “She’s… how should I put it… she’s _uneasy_ around wildlife,” Waverly let a smile permeate into her words, earning a giggle from Alice. “That’s what I think too! She’s a big baby, but don’t tell her that. She always said it was because she grew up in a city. Pfff. A meek excuse if I ever heard one! Anyway, there was one day when we were having a bit of a picnic at a beach, and this posse of seagulls attempted to wrestle a sandwich out of my hands. Even though I saw the fear in her eyes, Nicole didn’t hesitate to shoo them away.” 

Alice babbled in response. It sounded like _shoo_, and so Waverly repeated the word a few more times, “Shoo, shoo, shoooo.” She smiled at her niece and continued, “And you know who’s even scarier than seagulls? Your mom and granny. And yet, Nicole would always stand up for me with these two.” 

Removing the soil from the last two potatoes, Waverly tossed them into a basket and straightened up. She placed her right hand on her lower back reflexively – it hurt from bending in an uncomfortable position all day long – and stood like that for a long minute, to stretch the achy muscles slowly. Eventually, she grabbed the basket overflowing with potatoes and moved it next to Alice. 

“And you know what’s the worst?” Waverly crouched down next to the girl, who was waving her tiny arms excitedly at her aunt. “I never told her that I loved her,” she whispered. It was a confession that she always ended their little _talks_ with. It was a confession that was eating her alive. If she learned one thing from this war, from losing John and Nicole, and nearly losing Wynonna and their father, it was that life was too short not to let people know how important they were. Life was too precious to have it be driven by hatred toward enemies who, in reality, weren’t some abstract idea of a King, but kind people like William and John. 

Waverly lifted both baskets, potatoes in her left arm, Alice Michelle in her right, and set back home. She walked towards the setting sun, eyes squinting against the reddish hue. Wising up after giving up hope for their father’s return, she believed with every fiber of her body that Nicole was alive and well. Waverly hoped that, wherever she was, Nicole thought about her too, and that she could feel the love Waverly was sending her way. 

~XXX~

Waverly was all Nicole could think of as she quickly scribbled down what she’d learned in the French camp. The French and American armies joined forces, crossing the Hudson to set up camp outside of Tappan, NY. Washington’s goal was as daring as it was potentially deadly – the troops were mobilizing to attack New York City and wrestle it away from British hands. She wrote down the few most pertinent facts about the planned attack to warn General Clinton, and passed the note to a young messenger – no older than 14 – to ride fast to General’s headquarters. Concerned with disclosing too much sensitive information in a written form, Nicole set off to cross back to the city to personally share the details of the enemy numbers and the planned landing sites with the high command.

Confidence was key, Nicole reminded herself, as she moved boldly through the American and French troops to reach the city. She thought of Waverly when she saw Manhattan Island visible in the distance beyond the masts of docked British ships, and she slowed the pace to let her horse catch a breath. She was just outside of Kingsbridge when the confidence alone became insufficient to allow her safe passage through the enemy territory. A French guard stopped her progress, demanding to know, “What does a pretty woman like you do this far from home?” 

Known for her outstanding willpower, Nicole still barely managed to avoid rolling her eyes. When the guard grabbed the reins, she was forced to dismount. Nicole stuck to the story she had told numerous times on her way through the army camps. Confidence and _consistency_.

“Bonsoir. My name is Jenny. Perhaps you could help me. I’m looking for my father, Jean-Claude Bisset. He voyaged to France from Canada six years ago. My mother has received a letter from him recently stating that he’s signed up for the French navy.” Nicole sent the guard the most supplicating and innocent look in her arsenal. Spinning a story about a missing French-Canadian father has worked wonders thus far. Nobody wanted to be the one to break the news that the man was likely dead or missing, and both the French and American soldiers had allowed her to wander pointlessly through camp.

She expected a look of pity and a hand wave from the guard, but instead received a brisk once-over and an invitation, “Why don’t you join me in that tent, and I’ll see what I can do.” His lecherous tone and a lewd smirk didn’t go unnoticed.

Scanning her surroundings quickly, Nicole tried to assess the situation. Three more armed French guards were stood a close distance away, eyeing them carefully. The sentries posted at the entrance to the Continental Army camp were visible not a hundred feet away. A vast French camp spread behind her, with nowhere else to go. Deciding her chances for taking off were slim to none, she forced a smile and followed the guard into a medium-sized gray tent.

Unlike their male counterparts, that was yet another danger that the female spies faced. Nicole had been aware of the possibility of the soldiers she interacted with trying to assault her – not only the American or French but the allied British and Hessian as well. She was prepared for that scenario, even if a cold sweat ran down her back.

Once inside, the French guard stood expectedly by one of the poles, but Nicole didn’t wait for any more sexist, suggestive words to leave his mouth. She pounced towards him seductively, trying to focus on anything other than his yellowing smirk. Two more steps, and she was upon him.

Stopping, Nicole smiled sweetly, “Rot in hell.” Lips still split in a grin, she delivered a well-placed blow with the base of her palm onto his chin and nose. As the guard stumbled backward, utterly surprised and confused, Nicole finished the job by kneeing him in the groin. She left him squirming on the floor and fled the tent.

If the base of her right palm throbbed in pain, Nicole barely even noticed. She had learned the move from Wynonna, the woman claiming it was much more effective and safer than using your fists. Wiggling her fingers, Nicole had to admit that it sure allowed her a full range of motion still – something she was certain would be limited had she punched him with a fist. That drunken evening she spent in the company of the older Earp a couple of years back hadn’t been all for naught.

Just as she reached her horse, adrenaline coursing through her body blinding her senses, Nicole felt a sharp stab in her back. “Not so fast, mon chéri.” She turned around to a view of the three French guards she saw earlier, muskets at the ready. “Where is Pierre?”

Before Nicole had a chance to come up with a believable enough excuse, the missing guard staggered outside the tent, still clutching his crotch. With a barely concealed satisfaction, Nicole noticed a rivulet of blood trickling from his nose.

“Rrrrr, let me get my hands on you, you…” He spat through gritted teeth but had to swallow whatever insult he had on the tip of his tongue, as a regal-looking man rode up to them. 

“What is the meaning of this?” the man demanded. Judging by the red sash fitted across his chest, Nicole deduced he must have been someone of great importance. 

“General Rochambeau, sir!” one of the guards greeted the man, and all three rested their muskets to salute him. “We were just investigating the suspicious presence of this woman in our camp, sir.” 

“Don’t be deceived by her looks,” Pierre, the creep with a bleeding nose, interrupted, gaining the attention of the general for his impertinence. The rage and indignation carried Pierre on, nonetheless, “She’s a spy.” He spat with blood. 

The general’s eyebrows hiked up, attempting to hide beneath his wig. The other guards looked at each other confused and uncertain. “Now, Pierre. Let’s not get carried away here. A _female_ spy?”

Somebody chuckled. General Rochambeau tried to school his facial expression, yet his eyebrows refused to cooperate from the safety of his hairline. 

“Oui, oui. A spy,” Pierre bit back with more conviction and wiped his bloody nose. “She’s obviously trained in combat – you see what she did to a seasoned soldier like me? Why else would she be here, sniffing around, and stealthily assaulting French guards?” 

_Stealthily assaulting?_ Great. It seemed that Pierre not only suffered a broken nose but a bruised ego as well. Oh, how delicate these men were. Nicole’s hopes that he would keep their altercation to himself to avoid the ridicule of being bested by a woman in a fistfight evaporated into thin air. All the advantage she had of being underestimated as a woman was gone. Even if Pierre had made that accusation out of spite, not actually believing his own words, it was still potentially deadly.

Nicole was terrified to see the other guards nodding their heads, at first reluctantly, then with more vigor. “It makes sense that the Brits would stoop so low as to poison a young lady’s head with their propaganda and trick her into doing their dirty work,” one of the men agreed. 

Even the general eyed her suspiciously now. “Take her into custody. I’ll send our best interrogators to question her. God help us if this truly is how far the British are willing to go in this war.”

~ 

Nicole woke up disoriented. She’s repeated, “_My name is Jenny_,” so many times over the past few weeks that she started doubting her own name. Lying on her stomach, she glanced around and realized she was transferred to a different location. Her back still stung and ached, and she closed her eyes and tried to regulate her breathing. At least they hadn’t beaten her face during questioning, on account of her being a woman. _How chivalrous_. 

The first week of captivity had been a nightmare. Nicole had denied being a spy for the British, even in the face of physical torture. She had stuck to her story through it all not because she was afraid for her life – whether she confessed her allegiance or not, chances were she’d still be tried by court-martial and executed. No, Nicole was concerned that had she tattled, and General Clinton had learned about it, the British would find the Earps and – at a minimum – imprison Wynonna again. The very possibility of someone harming Waverly or her family in any way, shape, or form had kept Nicole’s mouth shut.

Being alive after she’d resigned herself to the execution was unnerving. She had been briefed on what to expect in case of captivity; after initial interrogation that typically lasted less than a week, she should have been put on trial, and likely hanged. Major André’s demise on the gallows was never far from Nicole’s thoughts. The fact that the French gave up on questioning her but hadn’t court-martialed her yet might have had something to do with their discomfort related to dealing with a woman. Instead, she had been given 100 lashes last week – a punishment typically reserved for much lesser transgressions, like smuggling goods across enemy lines – and had been kept a prisoner with little to no food ever since.

Oh, and they had cut off her hair. General Rochambeau had seen personally to it, almost apologetically claiming that he knew she was just a tool in the British hands and couldn’t possibly understand the complexity of the military strategies. Yet he had to enforce a punishment to let those animals know it wasn’t fair to involve women in a war like that, and thus he’d decided that cutting her hair would disgrace and humiliate her enough.

Short hair did little harm to Nicole’s person, especially that she couldn’t even see herself, but as a consequence of flogging, she came in and out of it for the past week or so (if her observation of time passage was a reliable enough tool in her current state). She could have sworn that the camp was eerily quiet in the past several days whenever she was conscious enough, but that could have been her mind playing tricks on her. Blood loss, pain, and hunger did curious things to a human body and brain.

Voices outside the tent pulled Nicole away from her ruminations. “The French transferred that prisoner to our custody yesterday.” _Must be the guards_, Nicole thought. “Accused of spying.”

“And he’s still alive? Pff, some allies. Can’t even hang a spy!” An angry and muffled yet vaguely familiar voice responded. 

“Well, it’s not actually a…”

“Save it.” The angry voice dismissed, and a swooshing sound of a tent flap reached Nicole’s ears. She prayed her brain was playing tricks on her, and that the voice didn’t belong to the person it reminded her of. 

A surprised intake of air, followed by a whispered, “Nicole? What the hell, Nicole?!” let her know she had not been mistaken. She had a second to realize that she had never heard Wynonna use her given name – not once – before a cool metal brim of a canteen touched her mouth. Since she laid on her stomach, the angle was awkward, but as soon as she tasted the water, Nicole couldn’t stop gulping greedily, even when a good portion of it spilled onto her pillow.

“Easy there, Red. I won’t have you drown on my watch,” Wynonna teased, but her voice was quiet and soft. Nicole could have sworn she felt a gentle hand run over her short hair. Opening her eyes, Nicole expected an ice-cold stare from Wynonna. They hadn’t parted at the best of terms, after all. What she was met with, instead, were unusually warm blue eyes clouded with unshed tears. The woman crouching next to her cot was in a pair of breaches instead of her customary black dress, bringing a small smile to Nicole’s lips.

“Thanks,” Nicole grunted. Flexing her back to drink from the canteen pulled on the broken skin there, and she collapsed on the damp bedding, closing her eyes again. “How’s Waverly?” Murmured into the pillow was really the only thing she needed to know if she wasn’t going to be able to see her ever again. “And Alice Michelle?”

“You would have known, you dumbass, had you just come back home! What the hell were you thinking, disappearing like that?!”

Astonished with the sentiment, Nicole’s eyebrows furrowed. “Uhm… If my memory serves me well, _you_ were the one who told me never to show my face in the city, Earp.” 

Wynonna got up to her feet and paced the length of the small tent. “I said that stuff in anger!” She threw her arms in the air in exasperation. “I was pissed and so…” Pausing, Wynonna glanced at the ceiling. She continued in a whispered confession, “I was so scared, Nicole.”

Nicole remained silent, giving Wynonna a moment to collect herself. The vivid memories of the prison ship, infested with rats, and littered with half-alive bodies, flashed in front of her eyes. What Wynonna had gone through was inexcusable and unspeakable, yet it had never crossed Nicole's mind to consider her emotional state the day she was released. Had she made a mistake staying away from the Earp household all these months? Away from Waverly? 

“I never thought you’d actually listen to me, you idiot!” The insulting and teasing tone of Wynonna’s voice was back. “Waverly… She didn’t take you being gone all that well. When you didn’t return after a couple of months, Dolls and I set out to find you and drag your ass back by any means necessary,” Wynonna looked down at Nicole, letting her know what exactly had she imagined those _necessary means_ to be. “But you just vanished into thin air. Our best counter-intelligence agents lost any trace of you. So what? Things just got too hard, and you went and… and left my sister with a broken heart?” There was an edge to Wynonna’s words now, an edge Nicole had no intention of toppling over. 

“No, Wynonna. You know I’d never…” She sputtered in self-defense. “You told me to stay away, and since I agreed to participate in a dangerous spy mission for General Clinton in return for your release, I figured you were right that I needed to stay away. That Waverly would never want me if she knew who I really was… But I still… I _love_ her…” Nicole didn’t have any fight left in her. These chocked-out words were as true now as they were the last time she had uttered them to Waverly, but they felt heavy in her chest and tasted like betrayal in her mouth.

“Ew… You better! But also, you did _what_ to get me out of that shithole? Are you fucking kidding me with that self-sacrificing bullshit right now, Haught? Did you think about Waverly at all before you went gallivanting into the sunset?!” 

The air in the tent became stale and heavy in an instant. Nicole’s eyes bore into Wynonna the best they could from the awkward position on the cot. _How dared she?_ Because really… honestly… truly… of all people, Wynonna should know better. She should know that everything Nicole did was _for_ Waverly. That her every walking thought circled back to Waverly. 

To her credit, Wynonna didn’t shy away from her gaze but met it head-on. After a moment of heavy silence, Nicole was convinced that Wynonna’s eyes stirred not only with defiance and reprimand but with her own guilt and unresolved issues with Waverly as well. She knew of some of those issues first-hand from the younger sister and suspected much more looking at Wynonna at that moment. Abandoning Waverly for the sake of punishing Doc must have taken its toll. Nicole softened her gaze and was thinking about the best way to approach that seemingly sensitive topic when the stalemate was broken by another visitor. 

“Wynonna,” the man greeted, clearly surprised to see her there. He wore a black hooded cloak that gave Nicole a creepy feeling. A sudden wave of goosebumps surged through her body.

“Killer Miller. Long time, no see. What can I do you for?” Wynonna’s smile was as fake as Nicole’s American accent.

“Ugh,” he grunted. “Here to transfer the prisoner. She’s third in line for the gallows.”

Nicole felt nauseated. 

He was the hangman.

And he was there for her.

Clearly, the same thought process went through Wynonna’s head. She met Nicole’s eyes, with her fake smile never leaving her lips. There was fear there, yes, but also something akin to a plea for trust, as well as an unbreakable determination.

Miller looked down at her prone form with a visible disdain, “Great. The frogs didn’t have the gumption to hang a woman, but they were all fine with flogging?” He sighed, annoyed. “I’ll send a few boys to carry her out. I hate when they make my job harder.” 

Nicole’s pulse raced with panic. She appreciated the sentiment she saw in Wynonna’s eyes, but there wasn’t much either one of them could do to save her now. 

“I don’t know, man. Go talk to Lieutenant Svane first. I was told to guard the prisoner until further notice. No one mentioned nothing about hanging,” Wynonna dropped casually, checking for dirt under her nails.

The hangman nodded, grunted, and turned to leave, just as yet another person entered the small tent. The space was never intended to hold so many people, and they all stood a bit too close to each other than was strictly comfortable. The newcomer was entirely obstructed from Nicole’s sight by Miller’s cloaked back, but she could see how the three people tried to side-step to allow for some personal space. 

The bright and cheerful giggle broke the tension and pulled at Nicole’s heartstrings. She recognized that giggle. She would recognize it a hundred years from now. Her pulse quickened, and her hands got clammy, but not because of the hangman. A soft smile appeared on her lips, and she couldn’t do anything to stop it, even if she tried.

She was going to be graced with Waverly’s presence one last time.

“Hi Jim,” voice still light from giggling, Waverly greeted the man. “Here, let me step out.” 

After some shuffling, tent fabric swishing, and more small talk, the hangman left. Wynonna took his spot by the cot, hands on her hips, obstructing Nicole’s view. There were no pretenses left, no reasons for Wynonna to prevent their reunion, and Nicole furrowed her brows, wondering about her challenging stance. Perhaps she was trying to save Waverly the pain of seeing Nicole in that state. Perhaps she was still trying to punish Nicole for her allegiance to the Crown. Whatever it was, Nicole wouldn’t allow Wynonna to come between her and Waverly again. Not that time. 

“Poor guy,” Waverly said, re-entering the tent. “He’s stuck with that ungrateful job.”

“Pff. Killer Miller is a psychopath. How do you think he’s earned that nickname? He enjoys his job a bit too much. I’d be more worried about his killer instincts after the war when there are no more people for him to execute,” Wynonna scoffed. “In fact, his next job is an old… _acquaintance_… of yours,” she added mischievously, stepping to the side and waving her arms at the cot with a flourish.

A few surprised blinks later, Waverly’s hands flew to her mouth to conceal a gasp. She was on her knees by Nicole in an instant, “Oh my god, Nicole.” Lost in the unexpected shock of it all, she ran her hands over Nicole’s injured back, repeating her name like a prayer.

The time seemed to slow down to the consistency of a proper Canadian maple syrup. Nicole had imagined that moment multiple times - the moment of seeing Waverly again. She had hoped that the circumstances would have been better, but none of that mattered when Waverly was by her side again. Smiling through tears, Nicole tried to prevent the hiss of pain from escaping her mouth from Waverly running anxious hands over her battered body. She failed, but that didn’t stop her from soothing Waverly, “It’s me, Waves. I’m all right. I’m here, and you’re here, and you’re even more beautiful than in my dreams.”

“You charmer,” Waverly sniffled, running a thumb over Nicole’s dimpled cheek. She was older now, her jaw having had gained definition that made her even more stunning than Nicole remembered. A few deeper wrinkles above her nose and across her forehead told a story of a stressful year, and Nicole hoped her disappearance hadn’t contributed too heavily to it. “I’ll take care of you now. We can go home, and I’ll make sure that you heal properly, and…”

“Ahem,” Wynonna’s exaggerated throat clearing interrupted Waverly’s rambled promises. “Did you miss what I just said, baby girl? Carrot Tops has a date with Killer Miller later today.”

Unable to watch the wave of despair and grief tarnish Waverly’s beautiful features, Nicole closed her eyes in anguish. For a brief moment, cocooned and safe in Waverly’s presence, she had forgotten about her impending fate. “Waverly, listen,” she grabbed onto the woman’s hand and searched her face. “There is so much I need to tell you, so much to explain, but we don’t have much time…”

“What?” Waverly was up from her crouching position, dropping Nicole’s hand, and facing her sister. “Wynonna, no. No. What are you even saying? No, no, no. We’re talking Nicole home with us today, come hell or high water.” She stamped her foot as if that was all they needed to convince Wynonna and the powers-that-be not to yank Nicole out of her life again. 

“And what reasons do we have to take Nicole home with us, huh? She’s not family. She’s not even _American_. And…” Wynonna paused, creating a much more dramatic effect than was strictly necessary, “…she’s been accused of spying.”

To that, Waverly glanced at Nicole, but quickly returned her focus to Wynonna. “No, Wynonna. Please,” Waverly’s voice broke, and she gulped for air. “I love her,” came a whispered confession, broken and choked. 

It wasn’t how Nicole had imagined hearing those words from Waverly. Hell, they weren’t even directed _at_ her. Instead of affection, warmth, and intimacy that those three words should carry, they were tainted by pain, fear, and despair.

“Fucking finally,” Wynonna murmured under her breath.

Waverly wiped her tears off angrily and stood up a little bit straighter. “No, I won’t let you!” Turning around in a fury of loose skirts and locks of hair, she stormed out of the tent. 

“Waverly, wait!” Wynonna tried but was met with the inside of the tent flap fluttering in the wind behind Waverly’s back. 

Nicole’s blood boiled. “What the hell are you doing, Wynonna?” If she could, she’d be up and in Wynonna’s face in an instant. As it was, she was forced to steam angrily from the cot. “Must you rub it in her face and steal whatever precious time we have left?”

Wynonna sighed heavily, and Nicole sensed her shuffling toward the cot. Next thing she knew, rough hands were pulling her skirts up. Nicole would never admit to it, but a surprised yelp escaped her mouth, and she wiggled to get away from prying hands, “Woah there, Earp. What’s all this about?”

“Relax,” Wynonna dismissed, tugging her underskirts back down. “I was just checking what got your drawers in a twist.”

Nicole rolled her eyes but remained vigilant. 

After a beat, a sigh, and an uncharacteristic chuckle, Wynonna continued, “You probably haven’t heard, but the war is over, Haughty. The redcoats surrendered at Yorktown. I figure the high command knows that sending you or any other prisoners to the noose would be in bad taste now, seeing how the peace negotiations haven’t even started yet.”

The war was over? This seemingly infinite conflict ended just like that when Nicole was unconscious. “The Brits surrendered at Yorktown? In Virginia? But didn’t the rebels attack New York City?” That was the last piece of intelligence she passed on before being captured, and so Nicole was confused about how the final battle could have happened 400 miles south of the city.

“The _rebels_?” Wynonna laughed. “Unless you want me to call you one of the more colorful names I have for the loyalists, you better remember that we’re no _rebels_, Red. And yeah, I guess the French frogs got reinforcements from the navy, and so our joint forces were transported from the Chesapeake Bay to attack Cornwallis’ troops in Yorktown.”

“And General Clinton? Did he follow your army?”

“Nah, some say he was convinced it was all a feigned attack to draw his army out of New York, and so he refused to move his ass down south. It helped us tremendously, too, but the guy is pretty much disgraced now. Imagine making a mistake that singlehandedly cost you and your king the entire war. Yikes.”

Nicole’s mind raced a hundred miles an hour. The war was lost because General Clinton ordered the northern army to remain in New York City… And he likely did that because… Because Nicole had sent him an encrypted message of a planned attack on the city. _It was all her fault._ The British Empire lost a crucial colony because of her actions. She did her reconnaissance the best she could, but now it was all for naught. Had she managed to avoid getting captured… Had she decided to stay and roam through the French and American camps a few days longer instead of riding back that day… Nicole swallowed heavily. She couldn’t shake the crushing feeling of responsibility that suddenly burdened her shoulders and pressed her body deeper into the cot. 

Before Nicole could spiral any further into the dark pit of inadequacy and guilt, Waverly ducked back inside the tent. Her cheeks were tinged red, and she appeared equally chagrined and embarrassed. “Why did you send me out to milk the pigeon? I went straight to General Washington’s tent and managed to yell at him before anyone could stop me until he kindly reminded me that the war was over, and they won’t be executing anyone! Poor Miller, too – I saw him getting an earful from Lieutenant Svane, who seemed a minute away from flogging the man! Why would you do that?”

Wynonna shrugged, “With Killer Miller, it was pure fun. Wish I saw Svane get all red in the face dealing with him. But with you,” she sighed. “I needed to rattle you somehow. Any time I tried talking to you about Nicole, you’d dodge the topic. I knew you were miserable inside – that much was obvious – and I wanted to be the person you could talk to.”

Nicole didn’t miss how Wynonna failed to mention that she was responsible for Nicole vanishing that faithful day.

“You sneaky squirrel,” Waverly teased, somewhat abashed, but opened her arms and stepped into her sister’s personal space. “I never thought you’d understand,” came a muffled confession into Wynonna’s shoulder.

“What’s not to get?” Wynonna dismissed. After a moment, she reflected, “I mean… Yeah, I guess I see your point. But you picked a good one, Waves. She got me released from that prison ship, you know.”

“She did?” Waverly’s eyes got comically large, and she disentangled herself from the embrace.

“Yup. But listen, we’ll have time to talk it all out later. Now we need to make sure that they don’t transfer Red Haught Poker somewhere far. Just because there’s no noose in the books for her, doesn’t mean they’ll just release her.”

“Well…” Looking between Wynonna and Nicole, Waverly intoned uncertainly.

“What did you do?” Wynonna asked, not without some trepidation reverberating in her tone. 

“Remember how I crossed the enemy lines all those years ago and passed on what I overheard the British officers discuss in our sitting room?” Waverly asked cautiously. Nicole’s eyebrows rose to her hairline, spurred on by a multitude of questions, but she didn’t interrupt what she presumed to be an embarrassing or difficult story for Waverly. 

“Yeah, and?” waving her hand in a universal sign of _move on_, Wynonna encouraged. 

“You see, I delivered that information to Washington himself back then, and it turns out he remembered me?” her voice rose up at the end of that sentence, making it seem more like a question than a statement. It didn’t help with Wynonna’s impatience or Nicole’s anxious anticipation. “So he said, with the most paternal smile, that in recognition of the Earp family contributions to the revolutionary effort, he would allow us to take the custody of Nicole!” she clasped her hands excitedly.

“What?” Both Nicole and Wynonna asked, utterly surprised. 

Waverly just smiled one of those warm smiles of hers. “See, Nicole - I said I’d take you home with me today, and I’m going to deliver on that promise.” 

“The infamous Earp stubbornness, at its greatest, ladies and gentlemen,” Wynonna shook her head in disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The French**, still bitter after losing the Seven Years’ War to the British (that’s how they were forced to cede all their Canadian territories), supported the American Revolution from the start, seeing it not only as a means to weaken the English global hegemony, but also as the incarnation of the Enlightenment. Initially, they quietly supplied the Americans with military supplies (arms and ammunition) and money, which – along with some pure luck – allowed Washington’s army to survive the first two crucial years of the conflict. In 1778, the French finally sent troops over the ocean, officially entering the war.  
Out of spite for the British, the French spent about 1.3 billion livres supporting the Americans (that’s about 10 billion dollars in today’s money). What might be the most cruel and ironic twist in modern history, they helped win that war, but ruined themselves financially in the process, sparking their own social unrest and precipitating the French Revolution. Is that why the Americans are obsessed with everything French?
> 
> Nicole’s actions were modeled after **Miss Jenny**, a French-speaking loyalist spy. Her true identity is unknown, but she was instrumental in warning the British command in New York about the planned attack on the city. She was captured crossing enemy lines to confirm her reports personally, narrowly avoided being assaulted, and was held captive by the French. They moved her between the French and American camps, trying to extract the information from her, but she kept to her story. Eventually, they gave up, cut off her hair as a punishment, and released her. That wasn’t a standard operating procedure – death was typically dealt to people suspected of spying – but hey, how could a woman understand the military strategy enough to be an effective spy anyway, right? Because of her report, General Clinton decided to stay in New York, when the British and French forces changed direction and attacked Yorktown instead. And that’s how the war was won, kids!


	8. 1782. The women who survived

_ 1782. _

Transferring Nicole out of the army camp had turned out to be a more complicated task than she anticipated. Nevertheless, Waverly had persisted and pestered General Washington tirelessly for a better part of a month. There had been some bureaucratic formalities, but eventually, she received a letter signed by the commander-in-chief himself, granting the Earps the custody over one particular prisoner. 

In the middle of all of that commotion, Nicole had been provided little to no medical attention. Obsessed with achieving the only goal she had set out for – Nicole’s release from camp – Waverly failed to notice the slowly progressing inflammation of her wounds until a fever set in.

On that glorious morning, when Waverly was finally handed the signed and sealed letter releasing the prisoner, she discovered Nicole unconscious and burning. Panicked and at a loss of what could have caused that sudden turn in Nicole’s condition, Waverly gingerly lifted her shirt, revealing an angry-red back, crisscrossed with oozing slashes. Deciding that the self-blaming party could wait, she ran for the army doctor. 

“Ooh, uhm, hmm… This looks very bad, dear child,” Dr. Jack Tumblety announced after a brief examination of Nicole’s back. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than her, yet he carried himself around with an air of feigned maturity and pretentiousness. The indistinguishable accent he spoke with, alternating between Southern, Canadian, and at times even bordering on British, puzzled Waverly even more than his meticulously curled-up mustache. “If it were a mere leg wound, mayhap amputation would serve her well. But this…? Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he shook his head and scratched his chin. 

“Surely there is something we can do?” Waverly tried to think of what mama used to do whenever one of them came home with scraped knees and elbows. She snapped her fingers, an idea not far from her tongue. “We could at least clean and dress it, right?” she finally offered. 

“Oh, yes, yes. It was most definitely my proposed course of action in such an event.” He proceeded to rummage through his massive medical leather bag as if it was his plan all along.

“What’s the quack doing here, babygirl?” Wynonna entered the small tent in the same _manner_ as always – that is to say, without _manners_, as she never seemed to have the time for pleasantries or greetings. She bit a large chunk of black licorice in her hand and chew it, masticating like Bessie, the cow.

Dr. Tumblety poured a bucket of water on Nicole’s exposed back. Wynonna visibly blanched and stopped chewing. Waverly cringed, hoping the water was at least somewhat clean, and already planning on how they’d remove Nicole’s now wet clothes and bedding when the woman lay there unconscious.

“Oh, I see.” Wynonna swallowed whatever last licorice pieces were still in her mouth. “You know that statistically speaking a soldier has a 98% chance of surviving a battlefield but only a 75% chance of not leaving a hospital, boots first? Not that Red’s a soldier, but you get the gist.” 

Waverly crossed her arms and looked at her sister, skeptically. Whatever _statistics_ she just cited sounded entirely made up. And besides, what else was Waverly supposed to do? Leave Nicole to certain death? No, thank you. She’d take that 75% chance.

“I reckon the fever was brought about by an imbalance of the _humors_,” Dr. Tumblety interrupted the sisterly squabble before it could really start. He sprinkled Nicole’s back with basilicum powder generously and pulled her soiled shirts over it. Within seconds, the entire tent smelled like an herbarium. “To restore the balance, I would prefer to induce vomiting, but that may not be prudent in her state. Bloodletting it is!” he announced, almost too excitedly, producing a large jar of slimy, writhing black leeches.

“No!” Waverly screamed anxiously, echoed by Wynonna’s determined, “No.”

“Just, uhm, leave us with some lint and vinegar for dressing the wound, please,” Waverly asked quietly, her hands already shaking. Wynonna stood protectively in front of Nicole’s cot, obscuring the doctor’s access. They both remembered how Willa nearly died as a teenager when one over-eager doctor drained most of her blood out after she complained of stomach aches. 

“And throw in some opiates, good doctor,” Wynonna added and blinked at Dr. Tumblety. Upon Waverly’s scolding gaze, she quickly amended, “For the patient, naturally!”

Correcting his small round spectacles, he looked down at the sisters with visible disdain. Leaving a small pile of supplies behind, he buckled up his bag and quickly fled the tent with a quiet, “Godspeed,” that almost sounded Scottish.

Waverly allowed a relieved sigh to escape her lips. “God, what a bad idea,” she shook her head, eyes locked and unblinking on Nicole’s soaked bed.

“Yeah, I’d say so. What were you thinking, calling for a quack? You should know better,” Wynonna admonished and – apparently already accustomed to the nauseating view of Nicole’s infected skin – went back to chewing the string of black licorice.

“I don’t know, all right!? I panicked, I guess,” Waverly through her arms in the air. “I just… I can’t lose her again. Not after just barely getting her back…” she whispered.

Wynonna nodded, her face contorted in an unnatural state of contemplative and sympathetic. Waverly decided not to wait and see if that spelled trouble in the form of another one of her sister’s ridiculous unsolicited advices or whether all that sweet licorice was giving her a tummy ache. “Hey, why don’t you help me change her shirt and the sheets?” she asked. “I want to cover her wounds with lint, bandage them, and keep them damp with vinegar, but that soaking-wet shirt needs to go.”

“That’s what she said,” Wynonna teased but proceeded to wrangle with Nicole’s limp body.

Once Nicole’s shirt and bedding were changed, and both sisters were sat on the floor with their backs against the cot, huffing with exertion, Wynonna grabbed Waverly’s hand and said quietly, “We’re not losing her again, babygirl.”

~

Undressing from layers and layers of spring coats, Waverly darted into the kitchen with the pot of lukewarm chicken soup she carried from the Earp house. Nicole had been recovering in the Beekman’s mansion for a bit over two months now. Even though her fever was long gone and the skin on her back healed and scarred enough, Waverly still worried they weren’t out of the woods yet.

“Waves, is that you?” she heard Nicole’s question from one of the ground floor bedrooms of the enormous house.

She hurriedly placed the pot on the stove to warm it up, when a pair of arms encircled her from behind. Surprised, she jumped a little. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“Don’t be cross,” Nicole asked with that disarming smile of hers. “I’m going stir crazy in there. It’s been two months, darling. I need to walk a little to build up my strength,” she winked.

“Oh, no. You march back to bed. There are still a few deeper gushes on your back that haven’t healed entirely.” Waverly shepherded Nicole back into the bedroom. Once she maneuvered the woman into the bed, she fretted with pillows to ensure they were fluffed and comfortable, before pulling a quilt over Nicole’s legs. 

“Waverly…” Nicole tried, reaching for her hand. 

“Wait a second. I have to take the soup off the stove, but I’ll be right back.” She hurried out.

When she returned with a tray carrying a steaming hot bowl, Nicole was propped up against the headboard, her head reclined, eyes closed. 

Waverly placed the tray over Nicole’s lap and sat next to it. “Here you go. Hot chicken soup. Granny Gibson’s…” but she didn’t finish before Nicole ended her sentence, “Granny Gibson’s recipe. I know, Waves. You’ve made it for me twice a week for the past few months.”

Nervously fixing a lock of hair behind her ear, Waverly sighed, “That’s right.” She patted Nicole’s leg through the quilt, avoiding her eyes. “I have to clean up in the kitchen and run back home to keep an eye on Alice. Now, eat up. It’s doctor’s orders!”

“Is it doctor’s or your general’s orders?” Nicole challenged in a hard voice Waverly never heard directed at her. 

“What? No,” Waverly looked up and met Nicole’s eyes for a brief moment, before returning to pulling a stubborn thread on the quilt. “I just want to make sure you are entirely healed and healthy before you go outside.” She dropped the annoying thread and begun getting up, ready to return to the kitchen.

“I see. So my prison here includes the grounds, and I’ll be allowed outside, contingent on my good behavior?” Nicole continued, unperturbed by Waverly’s obvious intention of leaving the room. She didn’t yell, she wasn’t aggravated or upset. But the cold tone of her voice brought Waverly’s eyes up. “I _am_ your prisoner, am I not?” Nicole whispered. 

Waverly froze half-way up, and her butt collapsed back onto the soft mattress. She blinked several times, confused at her body’s betrayal and Nicole’s harsh words. After a long awkward silence, when her mouth moved but no words came out, she finally ventured carefully, “You are not a… a _prisoner_, Nicole. If you want to… I mean… I’m not keeping you here by force,” Waverly started rambling. Once the words came, she couldn’t do anything to stop them from spilling. “I didn’t know you felt like this. If you… Do you want to leave? I never even considered that you may want to go back home. I mean, I know we didn’t talk about _us_ after all that has happened, and I just assumed you wanted to stay in New York with me… Oh god, what if you don’t even want to be together anymore?” 

“Waverly…” Nicole tried to gain her attention, but it barely registered in the periphery of her racing brain. “Waverly! Stop, please stop.” 

She shut her jaw with an audible clack and greedily inhaled a large gulp of air. 

“Look at me, Waverly,” Nicole asked, softly grabbing her hand over the quilt. “I _do_ want to stay here, with you. If you’ll have me.” She squeezed her hand and send her a tentative smile. As much as she was avoiding Nicole’s eyes before, Waverly couldn’t look away now. “But...”

Waverly’s heart jumped into her throat. 

“There are so many things we need to talk about. And I’ve been trying to breach the subject with you, but you always dodge it and run.” 

Waverly tried to deny, tried to excuse her behavior with all the responsibilities she had between the two households, yet it all died on her tongue. She realized that Nicole was right, just as her gut screamed at her to simply come up with another reason why she had to leave right that minute. Her body betrayed her again, her eyes shackled to Nicole’s, her butt firmly seated.

“I don’t feel like a prisoner,” Nicole explained. “But I learned from your sister that the only way to get a reaction out of you when you get lost in avoidance is to push you.” 

“What? I don’t _get lost in avoidance_,” Waverly crossed her arms. Being compared to her emotionally stunted sister didn’t sit well with her. “If anything, it’s Wynonna who will do anything to sidestep talking about difficult things. Have you ever tried asking her about John Henry or her time on the prison ship? Pff! Forget it!” 

Nicole listened but squeezed her hand when she was done, “You’re changing the subject. Let’s talk. Please?” 

Those large brown puppy eyes could rip any concession out of Waverly. “All right,” she agreed with a sigh, trying to be cognizant of the walls that tried to go up at the mere idea of _talking_. “What do you want to talk about?” 

“Let’s start with something obvious. Why have you been avoiding spending time with me?”

“I’m not,” she defended. “I’m here every day.” But after one skeptical look from Nicole, she conceded. “Well, I guess we haven’t really spent that much time together since you… you know… since you got back.” 

“You know that I want to be with you, right?” Nicole encouraged, still holding her hand, grounding and steady.

“Oh, yeah. I mean, I guess I do now. It’s just…” Waverly took a deep breath. She hadn’t really thought about it too much, at first missing Nicole after she disappeared, then – after they found each other again – too worried about her health to delve into her own feelings. “I just… Do you feel like you _know_ me? I mean, obviously, you know me, but after everything that happened, do you feel like you could ever truly _trust_ me?” she bit her lip uncertainly. 

Nicole considered the question for a moment. “I, uhm… Yes, I feel like I know you. If anything, your involvement in the Revolutionary effort – which, by the way, I still want to hear more about from you and not as a second-hand story from Wynonna – if anything, it enforced what I already knew about you. You are a sweet soul, Waverly Earp, always trying to help others without considering your own well-being. And you always fight for what you believe is right. That’s what I…” Nicole cleared her throat awkwardly. “That’s why I’m still here.” 

They hadn’t talked about their feelings since Nicole’s return, and Waverly was keenly aware that it was her turn to take a leap and profess her love. She cringed internally, remembering how her first “I love you” wasn’t even directed at the woman she loved. Add that to the long list of things she had inadvertently messed up. 

She sighed. “You know, after everything that happened with John Henry – with all of us trusting him. Wynonna, mama, even my father. We were all just so blindsided by his actions. How could someone like John Henry, who we knew for so many years, turn into this… this monster?” Waverly thought briefly of John André’s faith, directly caused by John Henry’s actions. The grief didn’t engulf her like in the beginning, but it was always right there, under the surface, just a bit more muted, more manageable. 

“You know that you can trust me, right?” Nicole brought her back from spiraling into a black hole. “I know that it doesn’t look good on paper. But for most of the years we were together, I wasn’t really involved in any of the British espionage. It wasn’t until Wynonna was captured that I went to General Clinton to ask for her release. Which he granted, but on the condition of me serving in that one last mission.” 

Waverly listened captivated to Nicole’s story. Wynonna had mentioned bits and pieces about her release and Nicole’s involvement, but in a true Wynonna fashion, it was never a full story.

“I don’t think we are like Doc and Wynonna. Not at all,” Nicole continued. “We’re both very principled people, and I will still say that the Crown had the right to defend its territories, but if this war taught me one thing is that we should all value the people and the relationships we have a little bit more. And maybe the world would become a better place if we were just kinder to each other…” After a brief pause, Nicole shook her head in disbelieve and added, “I guess my mother was right.” 

It was crazy how Nicole’s words sounded like her own thoughts. Well, maybe minus the part about her mama being right. “I know! That’s honestly exactly what’s been on my mind for the past two or three years! I guess I could never vocalize it, but this is exactly it,” she got excited that she could finally share that perspective with someone. “Between John André’s execution, you and my father missing, and then cousin William leaving for home with General Howe, I didn’t know how to feel about this whole war anymore. So many lives were lost, and not only American but also good British lives of people who had no business being here in the first place. And for what? They fed us this line that the Crown was the enemy, yet there they are now, comfortably negotiating peace in Paris with people who they had nearly compared to the devil. You know, people say that we will get our country, but our delegation is also going to agree to some really friendly trade terms with the British Empire. As if this whole war didn’t even happen.” When Waverly got going, nothing was stopping her.

Nicole nodded in understanding. “I see that, yeah.”

“And… and what’s almost worse is that when I first heard the Declaration of Independence all those years ago, I naively believed that this nation will be different. That they finally figured it out, and by saying that _everyone was created equal_, they truly meant this was going to be a country of equal rights and equal opportunities. How incredibly cynical and ironic of them to scream bloody murder at the unequal treatment we had received from Britain, but then turn around and apply even greater inequalities to their own subjects!” 

“You are right, Waves. You are absolutely right,” Nicole’s eyes shone with adoration and reverence. She nodded excitedly and listened to Waverly’s ramble, seemingly happy to just exist in the same space. Being listened to was not a pleasure Waverly was granted very often at the Earp household, and so she took the opportunity and ran with it.

Time had passed, the dirty pot remained dirty in the kitchen, and the world didn’t fall apart without Waverly’s attention. She didn’t notice how or when, but she ended up crawling onto Nicole’s lap. Rambling on and on, she hadn’t even considered whether Nicole was comfortable but engulfed in Nicole’s arms, and in Nicole’s soft smile and warm eyes, she was finally not anxious about anything.

At the first lull in the conversation, Nicole kissed her neck softly. That small physical contact felt vital, no different than air or food, and Waverly wondered how she had managed to live without it for so long. She sighed happily and cuddled deeper into Nicole.

“Do you mind me asking why you disappeared like that, without a word?” feeling safe and open, Waverly finally asked the question that had constantly been nagging at her.

She felt Nicole tense behind her, “Oh, uhm. It’s a long story, and a one that maybe you should ask Wynonna about first?” Nicole offered uncertainly, and Waverly just knew her sister deserved some strong words and a well-placed kick to her backside.

~XXX~

It was one of those perfect autumn days in the city that Nicole simply adored. The temperatures dropped to pleasant, the days were still long enough, and the trees turned into a spectrum of reds, yellows, and browns. They strolled down Broad Way at a leisurely pace, while New York City teemed with life all around them. A wheelwright was pushing a wheel nearly as tall as him toward his store. An apothecary was slouched over his counter, reading from a hefty tome, while an aroma of herbs wafted from his pharmacy. Two young women left a clothing store, giggling. Soon after, a ruffled milliner appeared on his steps, shaking his head in disapproval. 

As they passed by the wigmaker’s shop, Alice Michelle stopped next to a little boy who was looking up at a variety of wigs on display in awe. Hands folded over the windowsill, chin resting on the knuckles, he was barely tall enough to peek inside the store. “My mama already has white hairs. Soon, her whole head will look like that.” Nicole heard her divulge to the unsuspecting boy, pointing at the white wigs, before Wynonna pulled her along.

“All right. Let’s go, pumpkin. Remember when I said that auntie Waverly made an apple pie? We better hurry,” Wynonna used a diversion tactic that always worked on little Alice. 

The girl’s eyes got large like saucers, “Are we going to aunt and auntie’s house?” 

“Sure are,” Wynonna agreed.

“Good. I like it better there,” Alice proclaimed and skipped a few steps forward, already too excited to walk evenly. 

Both Nicole and Waverly failed to remain serious and chuckled into their dress sleeves. Wynonna shook her head at them, visibly trying for a scolding look, but even she eventually cracked a smile. 

They walked in companionable silence, greeting acquaintances, and always keeping an eye on the small ball of energy that was bouncing a few steps ahead. Every now and again, Waverly’s hand would brush against Nicole’s – and while to the outside world it looked entirely accidental and innocent, it always managed to speed up Nicole’s heartbeat. She adored those little walks, she adored Alice Michelle, but above all, she adored Waverly Earp.

They didn’t even make it to the Common when Alice pranced back and fell into steps with them. When she remained quiet for a few minutes and walked at a regular adult pace, it could only spell trouble. “Auntie Waverly?” came an inquiry at last. She was reaching the age of relentless questioning, and so Nicole had absolutely no idea where this query might lead them. It could be to ask why the sky was a different blue than the sea, or why Nicole’s hair was red, and hers wasn’t, or perhaps why Bessy had four legs, but they only had two.

“Yes, dear?” Waverly replied with the most encouraging smile as if they weren’t all terrified to pieces of what would come out of Alice’s mouth next. Nicole swore that Waverly was an angel personified. 

“You always smell very nice. Like flowers.” 

The three women glanced between each other, uncertain. Kind statements like that were not a common thing for the three-year-old. 

“Well, thank you, Alice. You smell nice as well.” 

Alice nodded thoughtfully and turned to Wynonna, “Mama? Why don’t _you_ smell nice?” 

Nicole held in the laughter bubbling up deep in her stomach this time, but only just barely.

“Well, uhm…” Wynonna stammered. “I don’t know, kiddo.”

“Even aunt Nicole smells nice. She smells just like auntie Waverly sometimes. How come you don’t?”

Nicole’s laughter died on her tongue, and it was Wynonna’s turn to guffaw. Kids were so perceptive sometimes.

“I’m sure there is a reason why Nicole smells like Waverly, but that’s a conversation I hope to never have to have with you,” Wynonna responded to Waverly’s mortification.

“All right,” Alice’s brain seemed to accept the non-answer, and she was onto the next thing. “Can you swing me?” She stretched out her right arm up toward Wynonna, but when she turned to her left, her other arm half-way extended, she noticed Waverly and scrunched up her nose. “Oh, uhm. Aunt Nicole, can you swing me?” 

“I can do it, sweetie,” Waverly assured, visibly relieved with the change of topic.

Bringing her tiny palm up to her mouth, Alice bit on her thumb, clearly considering the offer. “Uhm, granddad said I am a big girl now. And you’re too short, auntie Waverly. I want aunt Nicole and mama to swing me.”

Nicole laughed out loud, and so did Wynonna, but just after one look from Waverly, she was certain she would pay for that later. Sending a wink at Waverly, Nicole moved next to Alice and, together with Wynonna, counted, “One, two, three, wheeeee…” They lifted the little girl up and a few steps forward, to a cacophony of giggles and happy squeals.

Nicole didn’t notice that Waverly stayed a few steps behind until she heard distasteful cat-calling. Being a “single” woman in this city was not easy. When she looked back, she saw three young men dressed in tattered rebel… uhm… in tattered _American_ uniforms accosting Waverly. She dropped Alice’s hand and herded her closer to Wynonna. “Stay with your mama,” she asked absent-mindedly. 

“Good day, gentlemen. My friend and I thank you for your service. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be on our way,” with a gentle hand on Waverly’s lower back, Nicole steered her away from the vulgar swarm. 

“Those boys bothering ya, Ms. Haught?” she spotted a group of British soldiers crossing the street in their direction. Their impeccable red coats stood in stark contrast to the American’s frayed uniforms. 

“They meant no trouble, Corporal,” Nicole lied, noting the soldier’s rank. She found it fascinating how most of the British troops still stationed in the city recognized her. As an undercover spy, her mission, as well as her identity, should have been secret, yet the stories of a courageous redhead agent who was captured and tortured by the rebel forces, but never revealed any confidential information, spread throughout the city like fire. Last she heard, they were making her out to be some amazing hero, and Nicole swallowed hard, trying to keep the feelings of guilt and doubt down. She never admitted it to anyone – not even Waverly – but she was still fairly convinced that the information she passed onto General Clinton about the planned attack on New York, contributed greatly to his decision to keep his army in the city and, ultimately, to the British defeat.

“All right, but you’ll let us know if we can be of service, yes?” the overeager corporal continued.

“Most definitely,” Nicole hastily agreed and wished them farewell, as she noticed that the soldiers managed to frighten Alice – a deed not easily attainable. The girl hid behind her mama’s skirts, and her large blue eyes only showed themselves occasionally, when she would carefully poke her head out.

Crouching down next to Wynonna’s legs, Nicole tried to coax Alice out of hiding, “The soldiers are gone. Do you want to go straight to the big house and see if we can feed the horses?” She tried the same diversion tactic she had observed Wynonna use successfully in the past.

Instead of the excited squeal Nicole was expecting, she got a view of a pair of still partially hidden, skeptical eyes and a thumb firmly placed in Alice’s mouth. 

“Why are the soldiers still here?” she asked quietly.

“Oh… Uhm,” Nicole looked up to Wynonna for assistance but barely got a shrug in response. “Their bosses… Do you know who a boss is?” Nicole checked before continuing.

“Yes. It’s like mama. Mama is my boss,” Alice responded seriously.

“That’s right!” Wynonna hooted.

“So, these soldiers also have a boss. And those bosses are meeting right now to decide when the soldiers can leave. For now, they have to stay here, but they are not bothering anyone. See?” Nicole pointed at the group of British soldiers stood peacefully a few meters away.

Alice poked her head further out from behind Wynonna’s skirts. “Granddad said they are bad men. And that they will go home soon, which is far, far from here. I think that…” she considered carefully, “I think they are the reason why granddad is afraid of thunders.” 

That brought an alarm to all of their faces, forcing Waverly to crouch down next to Nicole. “Why do you think that, sweetie?”

The shrug that Alice gave in response was uncannily similar to Wynonna’s. Waverly looked up at Wynonna, before continuing to coax, “Did granddad say something about the thunderstorms to you?” 

“He didn’t, but… Uhm… But I saw him crying in bed when there was big thunder. Granny was in the kitchen, and he looked very, very scared. So I climbed in his bed and cuddled him like you do when I wake up scared.” 

Nicole glanced between Wynonna and Waverly, completely at a loss for words. How the hell do you explain something of such an immense complexity to a three-year-old? Never before had she hoped for this war to be over, for them to really find a resolution during the peace talks, as much as she wished for it then, looking at Alice’s terrified face. No child should have that fear in them.

Nicole’s heart also felt for Ward in that instance. She would still occasionally wake up soaked in sweat, pulse racing, from a nightmare about the siege of Quebec City. White snow and red blood. Waverly always managed to calm her enough to fall back asleep, yet they had never talked about it in the daylight. Partially because the memories were too painful, partially because Holliday’s involvement in the battle on the other side of the barricades made it a touchy subject.

Standing there, mouth half-open, Wynonna looked like a fish fresh out of water. Eventually, she said, “We’re all afraid of something, kiddo. Granddad is afraid of thunders and the redcoats,” and punctuated it with another shrug.

Waverly winced at the explanation. Not budging and resolute in her stance, Alice turned from looking up at her mama to Waverly, clearly anticipating a more satisfying answer. Nicole followed her lead because if anyone could explain this to the toddler, it was Waverly.

Her face was open and vulnerable, and Nicole wondered if she had her own demons from the war. The mental damage done to Ward was obvious, even though Nicole hadn’t known him before the war. Wynonna’s scars weren’t as evident, but they were there for anyone who dared to look closely enough to notice. But Nicole had never considered how Waverly fared before they met. Where was she during the battle of Brooklyn? Where was she when the British first occupied the city? There was much they still needed to talk about, but at least they had each other to help heal these invisible wounds.

“Oh, honey,” Waverly’s voice broke. “Come here,” she opened her arms, and Alice stumbled into her embrace without hesitation. “There were some bad men that did bad stuff to granddad, and I am very proud of you for being so kind to him. But I also want you to understand that just because one person did something bad, it doesn’t make everyone like them bad. Just like that time when Mr. Hardy’s horse tried biting your hand – were you afraid of all the horses after that?” 

Alice shook her head, “No. We went to the big house and petted horses again.”

“Exactly,” Waverly smiled. “It’s just the same with people. Do you understand?”

Considering for a long moment, Alice chewed on her thumb. Her face eventually cleared up, and something mischievous crossed her eyes. She nodded, “Yes. It’s the same like when I ask mama if I can have candy before dinner, and she says no, but then I can go ask aunt Nicole, and she’ll always give me some! Not every person is the same.” 

Scratching her neck, completely busted, Nicole tried sending Wynonna a placating smile. This wasn’t the time to have this conversation.

“You little _traitor_,” looking straight at Nicole when she emphasized the last word, Wynonna ruffled Alice’s hair playfully, causing an eruption of giggles. It seemed that the girl’s mind moved on from the topic of British soldiers, entirely satisfied with her auntie’s reasoning. 

Waverly squeezed Alice a bit tighter and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I love you, sweetie. Now, let’s go have some apple pie.” 

~ 

Saturday mornings at the Earp household were always a bit disorderly and messy, with Michelle trying to whip up a last-minute breakfast for six people, Alice running around the house still half-dressed in pajamas, and Wynonna wandering aimlessly from room to room with a half-drunk mug of coffee, complaining about all the commotion.

Saturday mornings were always a bit too crazy, but Nicole wouldn’t give them up for anything in this world. Waverly would be ready with a freshly-baked pie or donuts as an after-breakfast treat, and Nicole could always count on a cup of a strong coffee, which became her favorite drink since tea had become hard to come by. 

They were all sat around the small kitchen table, forced close enough that Waverly’s knee was touching Nicole’s. An assortment of sausages, muffins, and soft- and hard-boiled eggs sat in the middle for everyone to choose from. Ward, quiet and withdrawn as always, peeled an egg for Alice, sat it in an egg cup, and cut off the tip, exposing the runny yoke inside. Not waiting for Wynonna to help her, or at least put a bib around her neck, Alice grabbed a spoon and attempted to feed herself, uncoordinated but determined. Most of the yoke ended up on her pajama shirt and her cheeks, bringing a genuine smile to Ward’s face. Michelle, always seemingly a step away from an angry outburst, just shook her head in exasperation, glancing lovingly between her granddaughter and her husband. Wynonna took in the scene from across the table, a sausage pierced by a fork suspended half-way to her mouth. Observing Alice’s forehead and mouth set in a resolute fashion, that even to Nicole uncannily resembled Doc Holliday, Wynonna had an unreadable expression on her face. The older Alice got, the more she looked like her father, and Nicole often caught Wynonna send those sad, not very stealthy glances her way. As soon as the yoke ended on Alice’s chin, and hardly any of it made it into her mouth, Waverly was out of her seat, her own meal long forgotten. She rushed over to help her niece, always the one to take care of others before considering her own well-being. They had talked about it, Waverly swearing that she believed in her self-worth now, but it was a long road between identifying a problem and fixing it.

Nicole looked at the faces around the table. They had all been damaged by this war, but the love and affection were palpable. They were all a little bit broken, but they were a family. With the new weaving shop Nicole was working on getting up and running, she felt like she could finally call this city her home, could rely on each and every person around this table to be there for her. 

Waverly noticed her stare and sent her a warm smile, still trying to assist the stubborn toddler. “Looks like something’s on your mind, Nicole. Want to share?” she teased.

“Nope,” Nicole responded, and feeling lightheaded from all the tenderness coursing through her veins, grabbed an abandoned egg from Waverly’s plate. It was peeled, and even though Nicole knew it was likely soft-boiled and she’d pay the price for her tomfoolery in the taste of runny yoke lingering on her tongue for hours, she put it whole in her mouth. The broad and toothy – and likely, eggy – smile she gave Waverly caused a ruckus of laughter around the table. Even Ward continued smiling kindly.

“You… ugh… You thief!” Waverly alarmed, playfully, and got to her feet from crouching down by Alice’s chair. She walked around the table and sat in her rightful spot, sputtering, “I can’t believe this is what we do now to avoid conversation!” 

“Says the queen of avoiding conversations,” Wynonna poked, her mood picking up at the first chance of goading her sister on. She laughed heartily, up until a moment she noticed one of her own eggs missing from her plate. A chocking giggle across the table let everyone know who was in possession of the said egg now; little Alice managed to stuff it whole into her mouth just like Nicole did. She had been imitating Nicole’s actions a lot lately – a development Nicole wasn’t sure whether to be proud of or terrified. 

She was too immersed in watching Waverly to be sure who helped Alice steal Wynonna’s egg in the first place. Michelle was still shaking her head in feigned disapproval, so it wasn’t her. There was something in Ward’s eyes, on the other hand, something playful and mischievous that Nicole only associated with Wynonna in general and Waverly in certain specific situations, that strongly indicated his involvement, even if he just continued to sit there calmly.

The entire table devolved into an uproar of laughter and giggles. In the midst of all the commotion, Waverly snuggled a little bit closer to her side, and whispered a soft, nearly inaudible, “I love you,” into Nicole’s ear. 

They were all broken, but surrounded by joy and laughter, Nicole had never been more confident that they were all going to be just fine.

~THE END~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The statistics about the soldier’s chances in that war were true. You had a better chance of surviving a battle than a hospital visit. The medical practices described were also true. Doctors thought it was _"humors"_ that caused illness and would prescribe various ways of draining bodily fluids to _"balance the humors."_
> 
> The war ended with the Treaty of Paris, which was also the beginning of a close partnership between Great Britain and the US. The Brits realized how they can reap the benefits of trade without having to hold onto the American colony. I wonder how the ordinary soldiers and American citizens felt about that treaty.


End file.
